When Worlds Collide
by LunaStorm
Summary: MULTICROSSOVER - When the barriers between different realities blur and worlds so incredibly different are brought together, how can the Good keep up with a united front from so many different Evils? A Chosen starts his Quest to preserve peace… one by one, his Guardians will feel the Call…
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

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**When Worlds Collide**_  
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Prologue

Dark…

…a sidereal cold…

…velvety darkness that was made of no shadows, for there are none in the Void…

…an abyss so timeless and infinite it has no meaning and is now, for anytime can be but now, and is here, for anyplace can be but here…

No time. Nowhere. Nothing.

And in the cold… in the dark… pinpoints of light.

Nuggets. Shards. Cold and with ragged edges and never frozen but ever-changing, multiform in their complex varying shapes, in their never stable colours.

Worlds…

Sometimes, a spark will zigzag from one pinpoint of light to another, and another, and another… connecting randomly worlds that do not touch…

…a web of worlds: shimmering, stabilizing, shimmering again, trembling and reforming.

Sometimes, this lucent webs last but for an instant, gleaming then fading.

Other times…

…other times the sparkling connection gets tangled on a shard and turns slowly, folding and unfolding, tearing and uniting, fusing and confusing and the shine twists and merges and swirls like a pearly, metaphysical milkshake.

And then firms.

Like this five-point star of worlds that are now growing closer, and closer, and closer, and will soon collide.

Worlds so incredibly different and yet so alike, composed of the same fundamental units, vibrating with the same frequency: same atmosphere, same life forms, just the odd little difference in how it all works here and there… worlds peculiarly suited to the establishment of a connection…

The collision of worlds happens silently, softly, with none of the grandiosity such a reality-altering effect might be expected to have, and with all the naturalness of a fortuitous event, a connection is indeed formed, a link that touches only three focal points on each world, three dots on the luminous shards… living anchors chosen by the inscrutable laws of probability…

On four of those worlds, it results in nothing more than inspiration for an imaginative novel, a sudden desire to sail the seas, or even just nightmares.

But on the fifth world… on the fifth world conditions are such that the randomly chosen living focuses are both able and willing to grab the offered chances.

Thus it begins…


	2. It Begins

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

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**When Worlds Collide**

It Begins

The child was scrawny and lonely and miserable, and as far as he knew, he'd been so for all of his ten years of life.

The Sun was setting and darkness was falling fast but he was wandering aimlessly along the mostly deserted streets. His Aunt had thrown him out in a fit and he knew from bitter experience that going back too soon was a bad idea. It was much better to keep walking and watch the lights coming from behind the curtains, longingly imagining the families hidden there.

Suddenly, an incredibly weird feeling surged through him.

It was as if an invisible wall of water had splashed silently over him but he wasn't wet, just- _galvanized_, like being suddenly drenched with cold water would leave you: some strange form of energy was flowing all around him and through him, making his body vibrate, buzz, sting with the sensation. It was almost uncomfortable, like a milder version of the overall feeling of shock he'd had once after accidentally sticking his finger in a socket. Curious, he frowned and concentrated, trying to figure it out, and with a gasp he realized he could almost but not quite see a kaleidoscope of rushing dancing lights.

It felt… magical.

The child bit his bottom lip. There was no such thing as Magic. He knew that. He'd been told that countless times. But if… if…

There was no harm in trying, was there?... If, by chance, something like Magic could exist…

The child glanced quickly around, checking his surroundings warily. He was alone, good. He closed his eyes and _wished_… wished with all his strength, with all his desperation, that Magic would exist and take him away, give him a better life, somewhere he was useful and wanted, someone to care for him…

The surge of power was reshaped…

* * *

The shredded soul was barely alive, mere shadow and vapour, clinging to existence with desperate stubbornness, bitter that it could not rise above this half-life, too terrified to let go.

Suddenly, an incredibly potent feeling surged through him.

It was amazing, springing up through his consciousness like a snake, with such force that its awareness was heightened to an insurmountable level: all of a sudden sounds were louder, colours were brighter and for the first time in years its thoughts and its perceptions were as clear as they used to be when he was still whole.

Even if currently weak, the split soul was still an incredible magic user and recognized the power surge instantly as a magical disturbance of some sort. Even in its state, he craved the power the storm offered with stark lucidity.

Avidly, he sought out the source, floating through the dizzying viscous power with greedy frenzy, hope rising violent in him that perhaps, at last, he'd found something better than rats to exploit. He closed his eyes and _willed_… willed with all his might, with all the strength of his belief, his knowledge that Magic is essentially willpower, willed himself back to what he once was, to the height of his supremacy…

The surge of power was reshaped…

* * *

The old man gazed upon the children gathered in the majestic Hall for their evening meal, smiling in true joy at the sounds of chatting and laughter that warmed his heart.

Suddenly, an incredibly unsettling feeling surged through him.

It was as if a thin shaped film of… existence… possibilities… realities… was unobtrusively but unmistakably superimposed on everything for an instant or two, then ripped away. As if the world had tilted on its axis a bit, teetered for an excruciatingly long moment on the brink of toppling into change, then settled again…

He frowned, contemplating the odd occurrence. He was too well-learned to mistake it for anything but a wave of magical disturbance, the kind that unleashes wildly enough power to alter the very fabric of reality. He also knew how easily it would be to exploit it, for Wild Magic is an ever-moving energy, and like a mass of water, it needs to flow, so all one has to do is provide a course and it will pour through it, docile to the wielder's will… but he didn't dare use it… didn't trust himself with such power… he'd proven, as a very young man, that power was his weakness and his temptation… he couldn't afford such a responsibility…

All he could do was hope, with the tired, disillusioned hope of an old man who'd lived through two wars and was slowly preparing for a third, that its effects would not prove detrimental to the children in his care, that the residents of the castle would benefit from it rather than be harmed…

The surge of power was reshaped…


	3. A Brand New World

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**

A Brand New World

Harry was no longer scrawny and certainly no longer miserable, and he hadn't been lonely for a good while now. He had a fulfilling and exciting life at last, people he cared about. He was happy.

It had been the best idea imaginable, to take a chance with the 'Magic'.

When he'd opened his eyes again, right there in the middle of a darkened Surrey street, he had found a sort of hole hanging on mid-air, a roughly square-shaped see-through opening, like an invisible window that looked out on an entirely different place.

Another world!

Disbelieving and excited, he'd climbed cautiously through the weird window and found himself in a beautiful and otherworldly forest…

It had been night there as well and everything had been shades of blues: the enormous tree-trunks twining around one another, the soft soil under his feet, the graceful leaves and strange night-time flowers blooming. All had been unearthly beautiful. The trees had held huge bioluminescent spheres that emitted a soft, enthralling glow and everywhere he'd looked he could see small dots of light fluttering here and there like fireflies, leaving a sparkling trail in their wake till everything was glowing with small flickers of fluorescent colours.

It was so magical!

He'd barely noticed that the opening had closed seamlessly and noiselessly behind him. It's not like he'd wanted to go back after all! Magic had granted his greatest wish.

Magic was real!

He would not, could not doubt it anymore. Everything in the mysterious, enchanting wood had spoken to him of magic, the very air had seemed impregnated with it: Harry could almost hear a faint, melodious hum that filled him with joy and peace. A sweet scent that permeated everything had wrapped comfortingly around him as he'd made his way in the welcoming wood.

The deeper he'd gone, the more he'd felt enthralled by the place. He'd breathed deeply, letting the wonder fill him until he'd burst out laughing in delight!

It was under the canopy of indigo leaves that he'd met O'aka XXIII.

Harry had been running happily and jumping to catch the fluorescent fireflies, all the while laughing loudly and freely for maybe the first time in his life, when he'd slipped down a winding branch thicker than his waist, landing in a campsite next to a beautiful spring.

A man, friendly-looking but dressed so weirdly Harry had had to stifle his giggles – sandals that tied up on his calves and an unusual tiny jacket and the oddest little hat tied atop his head with a string! – had almost choked on the bread he was eating at his sudden appearance.

The look of shock on the poor man's face had been hilarious!

But he was an easy-going fellow and had quickly started laughing with Harry at the strange meeting: "Oooh, and what do we have here, now? Hey, lad, lemme see ye!"

Harry had giggled again at his accent: he sounded just like the plumber who'd moved to Little Whinging from East London some time ago and helped out with the maintenance at Harry's school.

The man had introduced himself as: "O'aka XXIII, Merchant _Extraordinaire!"_ He'd even jumped up and made a funny bow and Harry had laughed nicely and made a ridiculous bow back: "I'm Harry!" he'd chirped.

"Ye be needin' something, lad? I'm always open for business!" had asked the man excitedly, showing off all his weird merchandise.

Harry had been completely fascinated by all the odd things he kept in his giant rucksack (and how did he lift it, he'd wondered?) as well as all his bags and satchels; but he didn't know what half those things were, much less if he wanted them; and anyway, he didn't have any money.

O'aka had sighed in disappointment, saying comically: "Eh, it figures…"

Then Harry's eyes had gone round when O'aka had invited him to have some dinner! He'd never tasted anything that good. And while they ate, the odd man had chatted kindly, explaining a good deal about this strange new world.

He'd told Harry that they were in the Macalania Woods, a junction point for several other locations: "They's connected to the Thunder Plains down south – not a good place, them lands, nobody likes to go there, 'cause of all the lightnin' strikes… ye know what they say: 'Plains of lightning, plains of thunder, those who cross are torn asunder' - and ye can't run a trade with no customers! So I've no business there, see?"

He'd gestured wildly in his dismay, making Harry grin.

"Then off to the west is Bevelle – been there a few times, strange place… the Heart of Spira, they say! Sure are a lot of 'em New Yevon guys about these days. And lemme tell ye, they like to keep their secrets… same as the old Yevon Church!"

He'd shaken his head sagely. "Makes me wonder what they're up to, it does - but best not go asking, if ye get my meaning…"

Harry's eyes had lit with interest.

"And to the east there's 'em Calm Lands – now them's a good place for business!" had gone on O'aka, perking up at the mere idea. "Specially now, what with everything…"

Then he'd gone straight from vibrant to depressed: "So I thought, thought I, people are bound to come throu' here, right? These woods bein' so central and everything? And with the Eternal Calm, now, I thought it'd be an excellent investment!..." He'd shaken his head sadly.

"What?" had asked Harry, scrunching up his nose in confusion.

"Why, the Travel Agency, lad! What else? Rin's Travel Agency! It used to be by the frozen Lake, back when the Macalania Temple was still there – a magnificent ice palace, ye know, beautiful! Quite beautiful! But now it's not there no more!" he'd concluded tragically. "Curse that Rin for selling me the place when it wasn't good no more!"

Harry was riveted: "Why not? What happened?"

"Sank," had explained O'aka miserably. "To the bottom o' the lake, no less. So then I got no more customers to sell to, and no money to pay the Al Bhed for the agency. Ooh… I was in a big trouble!" He'd shuddered dramatically before brightening up: "Course, Lady Yuna saved me!"

Harry had smiled, amused by all the mood changes: "And who's Lady Yuna?"

"What!" had cried O'aka dramatically. "Ye don' know…!"

And he'd promptly launched into a convoluted explanation, which Harry had had to stop quite soon because he couldn't follow: "Wait, wait! What's this Sin?"

O'aka's eyes had widened comically: "Ye… ye don't… where are ye from, lad? Nobody don't know 'bout Sin! I think my mom told me brother and me stories about it when we was real little - because I can't remember never not knowing about it, ye know?"

It was Harry's time to widen his eyes in surprise.

O'aka had tapped his chin with two fingers thoughtfully: "Alright, lemme see… Sin is – was – a great big whopping monster, ye know? Wait, I've got something to show ye here somewhere… found it laying 'round and ev'rything…"

He'd jumped up and started rummaging through his huge rucksack, stuffing his head and shoulders in to better look for the promised item and almost falling into it, much to Harry's giggled amusement, but in the end, he'd triumphantly re-emerged, holding out a sort of glowing little ball that, to Harry, looked like round water imprisoning a swirling flame.

O'aka had quickly explained to the fascinated boy that it was a Sphere, a kind of recording device where you could store voice record, video, memories or useful information if you knew how to do it, and that there were thousands of forgotten Spheres all over the world.

"Usually it's the Sphere Hunters who get them, but this one I found meself!" he'd told Harry smugly.

When he'd activated it, Harry had seen a brief, poorly shot movie, full of static and that had to have been taken by someone who was trembling badly. It showed a sort of huge, dark… _thing_. It was moving very slowly. Harry'd thought that some parts of it looked kinda like big fish fins but he couldn't be sure, and then the Sphere had been over.

"Scary, huh?" had asked O'aka, looking very proud of himself. "Course, 'tis just a Sphere, ye can't get any feel to it – 'cause, Sin was so big that when you see only part of it, it looks like a great blob, ye know?"

"How big?" had asked Harry, completely fascinated.

The question had seemed to throw O'aka: "Dunno. Never given it much of a though, really. It's Sin, ye know. It's just… so big!" and he'd waved his arms madly to drive his point home.

"Wow."

"Anyway, it existed for a thousand years or more, ye know..."

Thus had started Harry's education on the history of this new world, which, he'd discovered, was called Spira.

It was terrifying and amazing at the same time. Harry had listened with rapt attention and hadn't known where to start asking questions. Sin, whatever that was, or had been, monsters and fiends and spawns, Al Bhed and machina what ever they were, a place called Zanarkand (and wasn't that a great name? It sounded totally cool!) Guardians and Summoners…

"Summoners? What are those?"

He didn't even know why that was the question he'd blurted out first, in the end, but it was okay. It was what had caught his attention the most after all.

O'aka had goggled at him, but then he'd shrugged off his odd ignorance and started nodding vigorously: "Yeah, yeah! Summoners, they're the ones who defeat Sin. They go – used to, really – to this pilgrimage, all around the world, with their Guardians, they got into the Temples and got all the Aeons - that is, the creatures they summon, ye know. And then they went to the ruins of Zanarkand and then… then they defeated Sin. Well some did. Not all managed… But when one did, then we'd get a Calm. For a while. I remember… I was just a wee lad when High Summoner Braska defeated Sin. Ye wouldn't believe how it was afterwards! The parties! The fun! Not a single word about Sin, no attack, no fear, ye could go anywhere, nothing to worry about! And everybody was so happy… lasted over a year, it did!"

"Why only a year? What happened after?" Harry had felt confused. If the hero had defeated the monster, shouldn't things have been okay? That was how stories were supposed to go!

"Well, then Sin came back, didn't it? It always did. And then another Summoner had to go and do their thing but not many were able to, ye know? Sometimes it was years before it all happened again..."

"Again?" had asked Harry bemused.

"It… well… 'twas like a cycle, lad… first Sin, then a Summoner would defeat it, and we'd get a Calm, and then Sin again," O'aka had nodded sagely, "until another Summoner defeated it again, ye know. And that could take years…"

"But why? If Summoners can defeat Sin - why don't they do it right after the Calm ends? So there's always a Calm?"

O'aka had given him a sad look: "When Summoners went to pilgrimages to defeat Sin - they died, if they actually did it. Not everybody could… not everybody wanted to – some chickened out before the last stop… can't blame 'em, all in all. I don't think I've ever heard of a High Summoner who survived after defeating Sin – 'cept Lady Yuna, ye know?"

Harry had been lost in the story. To imagine… A Summoner had to sacrifice his or her life to defeat Sin, and give everybody peace and happiness… and then, a year or two later, Sin was back, and another Summoner had to go through the whole thing and die. Again and again… How could they do it? He didn't think he would have the courage to die just for a few years of Calm! How could they think it was worth it? And what was Sin anyway? How could you defeat something - only to have it return after a year or so?

"We were used to it, see?" O'aka had interrupted his wonderings. "Sometimes there was a Calm, and we all enjoyed it. Then Sin'd come back and the fear with it. Once a month you'd hear that Sin'd attacked this ship or this village or whatever," O'aka had shrugged his shoulders, as if it was all normal. "Or you'd see it here and there – creepy, it was. Real creepy... Whenever I'd be in a town and anyone so much as whispered that Sin was close by, it was panic. Madness! Ye never knew when and where Sin'd attack - if he was seen close by, ye'd better run!"

"Were you ever attacked?" had asked Harry, eyes wide with fright. A terrible monster that kept coming back again and again… it had seemed almost impossible, there in the magical atmosphere of the indigo woods. It had chilled him, to think that such a lovely place could hide so monstrous a danger.

"Couple of times," O'aka had shrugged it off with nonchalance. "It was scary as hell, ye know. It was just hanging there, in the air, and I really thought it would just drop down and crush everything, including me."

"And Sin just… attacks? Like, at random?" Harry had asked, seriously worried.

"Don't ye worry no more, lad. Lady Yuna took right care of it! She ain't High Summoner for nothing, ye know!"

"But you said it always comes back!" had cried Harry, upset.

"No, it doesn't! Not anymore! 'Cause Lady Yuna is totally awesome!" had retorted O'aka triumphantly. "She defeated it for good! And now we have an Eternal Calm! No more Sin! Forever and ever! Spira is finally free!"

Harry's mouth had opened in amazement: "How did she do it?" he'd asked in wonder.

But O'aka hadn't known, not really. He'd just waved his arms madly and gone on to talk of how Lady Yuna'd always been kind to him and how they'd met several times, before and after the Eternal Calm started.

Though he'd also told Harry everything that was common knowledge – like how the Church of Yevon had attacked Lady Yuna when she'd exposed their evil ways. Per-se-co-lu-ting her (Harry'd had to ask O'aka to explain that word, because he'd never heard it before): "They branded her a heretic! A traitor! Hah! Them's the traitor, says I! And I was right! In the end, them Yevonites were shown for what they were – Corrupt! Liars! Frauds!" He'd waved his fist menacingly. "O'aka knew it all along! Lady Yuna's the best of the best, she is – she couldn't be wrong! And O'aka's always been a friend to Lady Yuna!" He'd nodded emphatically, a determined scowl on his face.

Harry had smiled. He liked the strange man – and he liked Lady Yuna too. She was like a princess in a fairy tale, beautiful and brave and everything, fighting against the monster and the evil guys with her friends and triumphing after a lot of cool adventures.

"And now everybody knows it too, don't they? She's quite popular these days, eh?" O'aka had chuckled, suddenly back to being lively and merry. "Course, I helped her, ye know! Sold her some real good stuff… 'cause I'm O'aka XXIII, Merchant Extraordinaire!"

Harry had laughed at that, but he'd still been wrapped up in the tale. It was fascinating… he couldn't wait to learn more. "But where did Sin come from?"

"Don't rightly know, lad… I reckon nobody does… 'cause, ye know, those Yevon priests… they told us Sin came to be because long ago, we made machina and did horrible things with them, but… I'm not so sure they knew what they was talking about. We got some machina now, more and more all the time really, and nothing bad's happening…"

Harry had scrunched up his nose and nodded thoughtfully: "So it must have been something else that made it come…"

"Ah, well… who cares? Sin's just always been there. Maybe it's because of machina and stuff, or maybe it was there just… because it was there. I'm no Summoner, so, what do I know, right?" O'aka had laughed softly. "The important thing is that it's not there no more!"

Harry had nodded fervently at that.

In time, Harry had found out that O'aka loved to tell stories and having travelled all over Spira so much, he knew many, many tales.

Some stories were cute, like the one of little Benzo, the only boy known to understand the strange language of the Cactuars.

Harry thought that it was a shame that O'aka refused to go to Bikanel Desert, because he would have loved to meet the intelligent cacti that protected the region. And Benzo himself, who O'aka had told him was his same age. Unfortunately, the vendor was too scared of the Al Bhed who ran the excavation enterprise. Apparently, they had threatened to make him work there to repay his debt! Though he told Harry that if he wanted to go there on his own, when he grew up a bit, he could. "Maybe ye'll find out why all Al Bhed kids wear full body suits! Them's fascinating clothes, to be sure, but no-one knows what them's for! Ye could try and ask, eh?"

Other stories were funny, like those involving Tobli and his Hypello assistants.

O'aka and Tobli had met and bonded over the un-reasonability of their Al Bhed shareholders and become good friends over their common determination to avoid paying their bills, so the merchant had a number of tales about his highly-excitable buddy. Harry had a grand time imagining the diminutive stage producer zooming around in a hijacked Al Bhed machina hover and then crashing it into a billboard near the Moonflow, or roping a group of highly strung children into running all over the place shouting a promotional slogan for his latest show at the top of their lungs.

There were also stories that were terrible, like the tale of Omega, a traitor to Yevon who was banished to a small group of islands and slowly went mad being imprisoned in the maze-like dark passages, until his hatred for Yevon grew so strong it turned him into a fiend. Harry shivered at the mere idea of being trapped in isolation like that – he knew a little what it was like and wouldn't wish years and years of it on anyone.

And yet more stories were full of actions and sadness, like the numerous tales about the Crusaders, who had been fighting to defeat Sin for as long as anyone could remember, but never managed.

O'aka had told him repeatedly that they were pretty awesome anyway: "They were the only ones who could sort of hold Sin at bay – that's why we could still have Blitzball games in Luca!" Once Harry'd had a chance to see a match of the wildly adored aquatic ball sport, he'd agreed that that was an awesome accomplishment indeed. Blitzball had quickly become his favourite sport – just like for everybody in Spira, it seemed.

Despite everything, Harry's favourite remained the tale he'd heard that first night, of Lady Yuna's pilgrimage and Sin's defeat, however.

It was too amazing for words. It had everything: a dangerous quest to save a fantasy world, which was all the more awesome for being real, a monstrous whale-like horror to defeat, those priests that pretended to be good but were really enemies, a group of cool adventurers that O'aka could tell him a lot about because he'd actually met them, so it was almost like Harry himself had known the engagingly grim Warrior Monk, the stoically ironic but well-meaning Black Mage with her devout and funny not-quite-boyfriend, the chirpily perky Al Bhed with her love of machina, the silently strong Ronso warrior and the Blitzball star Lady Yuna had fallen in love with… and most of all, Lady Yuna herself, a totally great heroine, towards whom Harry was quickly developing a bad case of idol-worship!

And they had so many adventures! Even if O'aka didn't know everything and sometimes made things up, it was still wondrous. Harry never got tired of listening to it and thankfully, O'aka never grew bored of telling it!

That first night however they'd just chatted a bit more, O'aka finally getting around to question Harry about his own life. The boy hadn't said much. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't much to tell after all and most importantly, he was clinging to the hope that there wouldn't be anything to tell ever again – not about his 'relatives', not about his former 'home'.

In an effort to distract O'aka from his unwanted line of questioning, Harry had changed the topic asking: "So what are you doing here again, if the Temple has sunk like you said?"

"Ah!" had brightened O'aka. "See, here's the thing!" He'd rubbed his hands happily: "I'm going to save the Travel Agency! And then I'm going to get a friend of mine to do a show here! I'll make tons of money then, on account of this place becoming famous…"

"How?" had asked Harry, very interested.

"Well, ye know," had started O'aka, "Lady Yuna and her friends, the Gullwings, helped me out again! Stowed me away on their ship, they did! So those Al Bhed wouldn't find me… bought all me merchandise too, so I could pay me debts. Cool, eh? So now I'm in the clear again! No debts. Problem is, all these rumours sayin' that the wood is dyin'… that's no good for business!"

Harry hadn't believed that for one moment. There was too much life, too much magic in Macalania to think of it fading. He'd told O'aka as much and the man had been overjoyed: "Knew it!" he'd cried, and had promptly started muttering about taking the boy to meet the exiled Guado, "to tell'em fools too!"

Since Harry hadn't had anything else to do anyway, he'd gladly agreed to help the merchant out and over the next days, he'd been dragged along around the woods to 'support' O'aka's attempt at saving his shop.

The Guado people that the vendor had mentioned the first night had turned out to be – to Harry's shock – not human at all, but rather a plant-like humanoid race, with wooden-looking skin and overlarge hands that resembled branches. Harry was a bit grossed out by the prominent veins on their faces, but he could admit that their green flowerish hair were cool. Too bad their attitude was anything but.

O'aka had explained to a more and more confused Harry that they'd dwelled in a city of their own once, carved through the roots of giant trees, where they had been the protectors of Spira's Farplane and made a living out of the fact that they were the only ones who could make it safe for living visitors (not that Harry had known what the Farplane was… in fact, the whole concept had remained rather fuzzy in his mind even after several explanations, until he'd had a chance to see for himself.)

It had been clear from the start, anyway, that the vendor didn't think much of them. In fact, O'aka had told Harry, with an uncharacteristic frown: "I tell ye, these Guado merchants are shrewd! Rippin' off the pilgrims that went to visit the Farplane – that's how they got their living! Then they were chased away from their underground city and now they're here and don't know what to do with themselves! But they're not to be trusted – I tell ye, they's not changed. Them's trying to get our pity, but… they's still as arrogant, always lookin' down on us other races! But they ain't anything special in the end. Listen, ye watch that they don't get ye, too!"

Harry hadn't liked them much either. One of them had tried to explain to him that they'd sought refuge in these woods because they were spiritually connected to them, and that they and the woods were fading away together because of that. Harry had felt almost offended on behalf of the beautiful woods.

He also had some trouble understanding why the Guado were content to die - along with the forest - for their supposed 'sins'. Just because Lady Yuna's enemy, the evil Maester Seymour Guado, had done horrible things and now that Sin had been defeated, many people sought vengeance for his crimes and blamed all of them by association? He just didn't understand. In his opinion, they should go out and fight to convince everybody that they weren't all evil!

But it was no use trying to talk some sense into them. They were miserable and lonely, pathetically repeating that they would die when the forest disappeared, due to the fayth at Macalania Temple fading away, and bemoaning how sad it all was, but without doing anything to stop it.

O'aka had told him quite clearly: "'Tis no skin off me nose if them's killed or what. I just want 'em to stop being so depressing 'bout the woods dying!" His basic idea was to get the Guado to stay hidden in the woods and not interfere with the show he wanted to organize: "They're goin' to scare customers away if they're bein' so gloomy all over the place!" he'd complained.

Between O'aka's stubbornness and the Guado's tendency to apathy, they'd soon reached an agreement and Harry had been the only one not really happy about it, but at the end of the day, it was the Guado's choice what to do with their lives, he supposed.

Then had come the time to round up the three races of Musicians, ancestral protectors of Macalania: a tall, blue-colored bird-like one with a harp, a short one with something that looked like a trumpet but more curvy and a rotund one with big drums. Chasing them down and convincing them to play nearby the frozen lake had been fun, even if Harry found their music rather dull.

Tobli the stage producer had made up for it with his overwhelming enthusiasm, anyway. He'd descended on the Macalania lake like a tornado, his blue Hypello assistants in tow, and whipped the whole place in a frenzy, apparently all by himself. Harry had found it irresistible how incredibly fast he talked and had driven O'aka mad adding "Yup-Yup" to the end of his sentences for over a week afterwards.

Tobli was also responsible for a heightening of Harry's quickly developing case of heroine-worship toward Lady Yuna. The hyper chap had kept bemoaning the fact that her great success was making it hard to organize another show at the same level. Naturally, the boy had demanded the whole story and as the stage producer was incredibly proud that the Gullwings had asked _him_ to help with their idea to lift the spirits of the people of Spira, he'd willingly told the tale.

Thus Harry had found out that Lady Yuna could _also_ sing wonderfully – in fact, she was so good that everybody who'd listened to her had felt their spirit soar. Not only that: even the endless storm across the Thunder Plains had stopped for her! For the first time ever, those barren lands had seen the sun, and it was all thanks to Lady Yuna! How awesome was that?

Harry had pestered O'aka a good deal to obtain a Sphere of the concert and when he'd finally got his hands on one, at the Sphere Theatre in Luca, (not an easy task because apparently, everybody wanted a copy) he had ended up learning the song by heart, so many times he'd played the Sphere!

Meanwhile, anyway, the show had gone on and a surprising number of people had turned up from all over Spira for the event. O'aka had been walking on air, and so had Tobli. It had been a great success!

The only sad thing was that the Gullwings couldn't be there, because they were off fighting some monster or other somewhere (nobody was clear on the details, except for the general knowledge that they'd answered a help call from an Al Bhed). Harry had pouted at the missed opportunity of meeting his idol, but consoled himself thinking that there would be other chances.

Of course, everybody had gone away after the concert: the place wasn't very good for living after all; the important thing was that the word had started spreading that the shop in Macalania was up and running and had a cool inventory, so they could expect business to pick up again. Now if only that mess with the Guado and Ronso people would be resolved… but that was someone else's problem, after all.

During the clean up after the concert O'aka's younger brother, Wantz, had showed up unexpectedly, complaining that the merchant had opened the store again, "without even tellin' me! Why, I only left back then 'cause my job was bound to fail, what with the Temple being gone!"

O'aka had been all ready for a spat, but after bickering for a while, they'd come to the conclusion that it was best to combine their inventories. Wantz, especially, had been excited at the idea: "Why, our store's goin' to be the best on Spira! People'll pay any price for our stuff!"

That had been convenient, because once the excitement over getting the shop going again had died down, O'aka had grown restless. Being a travelling merchant was in his blood. He'd told Harry: "Makin' gil is all very well and good, lad, but I miss the excitement, ye know? Besides, how're we goin' to keep our store at the top if we don't get good stuff to sell?"

So he had decided to leave his brother to handle things at Macalania and be off.

"And what 'bout ye, lad? Ye stayin' or comin' with me?"

Harry had had no doubts whatsoever. He loved the ever-nightly woods and often he wished to return there, seeking the faint magical hum and the serene beauty of Macalania, but the lure of journeying around the world, seeing amazing things and having adventures, was irresistible.

So he'd gone with O'aka. And oh, how wonderful it had been to explore this brand new, exciting world!

He'd also come to enjoy O'aka's weird way of taking care of him. The travelling merchant didn't order him about or insist on strict rules, but he took the time to show him and explain plants and fiends, foods and items as they met them and always made a point to stop at important historical or artistic places, so that Harry would learn about the history and customs of Spira: he was forever telling him a story or clarifying something they'd seen and was careful to warn him of the many dangers the world presented and teach him how to look after himself.

The thing that Harry was most grateful for, however, was that he'd given him brand new clothes.

The poor merchant had been dismayed when he'd inspected the boy's rags: "Yewh! Filthy, filthy!" he'd cried comically. "These won't sell or me name's not O'aka!" And that had been the end of Dudley's horrible cast-offs, because to Harry's delight, the man had burnt them on the spot.

Now Harry ran around in a cool outfit of a deep blue colour ("'Tis called cerulean, lad! Ladies love it, ye'll see!"): a pair of comfy trousers and a loose shirt, both made of a strange fabric, different from any Aunt Petunia had ever made him wash, soft and velvety but very sturdy, with many dyed leather strings crisscrossing over the shoulders and down the arms.

O'aka had given it to him along with strict instructions of "finding what ye'll need to personalize it on your own, lad." Harry hadn't been sure what he meant by it at first, but the more people he saw, the more he realized that most of them took great care in festooning little bits of weird stuff on their base clothes. Many people were also willing to tell him how they'd found or been given this or that ribbon or accessory and Harry had come to understand that their clothes represented their personal history and the friends they'd made in life. It was a fun way to make their look unique.

Little by little, he too had added to his outfit: now he had a belt of woven cord, several coloured bands of threads and yarn decorated his wrists and he wore a black hair-band he'd bartered for in Luca, with the fiery Gullwings emblem on it, to which he pinned or tied small coins, little shiny rocks, odd-looking bones or whatever struck his fancy.

He loved it.

The only thing left from his life 'before' were his battered glasses, but as he couldn't see much without, there wasn't anything he could do about it. At least a man they'd met on the road had taught him how to repair them with iron wire instead of the non-existent tape or wool threads, and then a pair of gloomy but skilled twins had shown him how to dye it with vinegar until the glasses turned brownish-orange. That way they looked suitably odd, at least!

The morning when they'd first set off, O'aka had wondered aloud where to take Harry first, pacing back and forth outside his brother's store while the boy bounced impatiently in place, and finally declared: "Listen to me, lad! Best place to start learning how to travel is the Calm Lands! Off we go!"

Thus they'd turned their steps to the bright green grassy plains, where the sky was always sunny blue and a soft clean breeze brushed the landscape stretching gently in every direction.

It hadn't taken long before they got lost – the plains looked about the same everywhere – but it hadn't mattered either. It was easy to find other travellers equally gone astray and everybody just chuckled together over it: "People always get lost here – good thing the place is so pleasant!"

And pleasant it was indeed.

Of course, O'aka hadn't wasted any time in branching off into a new business venture and in a matter of days, every meeting had turned into an attempt at hooking new customers: "O'aka XXIII, Merchant Extraordinaire, at your service! You wanna buy something? Maps, compasses, potions, gear, tents! Anything you need to cross the Calm Lands, I have it right here!"

But mostly they just enjoyed their time together and chatted about everything and anything, or even simply lay down on the fresh, sweet-scented grass, soaking up the sun.

That had led Harry to his first meeting with the chocobos – the most lovable creatures on all of Spira, in his opinion. A meeting that had taken the form of a sharp tug on his hair, one day while he was dozing off and contentedly watching the clouds chase each other in the cobalt blue sky, while O'aka snored nearby.

Feeling too comfortable to be annoyed at being bothered, he'd simply lifted his head from the bright green grass and then he'd blinked in astonishment at seeing a pair of sharp talons just beside him, above which a bright expanse of yellow feathers was bobbing, bowing a cute chick head to tug on his hair again.

"Oi," Harry had said amused, tugging back before waving his arm at the creature. "Just what are ye, birdie?"

To his surprise, the bird had answered, but unfortunately it had been just a strange "kweh" sound, at which Harry had burst out laughing: "Ye're too cute!"

The strange bird had seemed to like his laugh and had made the "kweh" sound again, then butted its great dark orange beak against his waving hand amicably.

Harry had laughed again: "Ye're a friendly fella, aren't ye?" he'd asked, without even noticing that he'd started to imitate O'aka's speech patterns.

The bird had warbled some more, and then cooed delightedly as he scratched the underside of its chin.

That had been the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

It had turned out (when O'aka had finally awoken enough to explain) that the bird was a chocobo and that they were pretty common. It was about as big as a horse and its wings were stunted – O'aka had made it clear that it could never fly, much to Harry's disappointment – but its well-developed legs allowed it to run almost as fast as the Road Runner in Dudley's cartoons, as Harry had discovered to his great delight.

There was nothing better than speeding along through the landscape of grassy fields at amazing speed, the wind rushing around him, exhilarated and free, feeling the blood sing in his veins.

Better still, when he was riding the chocobo none of the wild fiends attacked him – it seemed they steered clear of the bright yellow birds; and that meant that O'aka let him go off with his new friend often enough, to have fun and explore to his heart's content, as long as he was back with the merchant by sundown.

In fact, the man even managed to make the most of it: he was a Trader after all, from a line of Traders. As soon as he'd realized the potential in Harry's having a chocobo to rely on, he'd tasked him with finding stuff to sell!

"Tell ye what; everybody knows that Gysahl Greens are a chocobo's favorite food, so they's good at finding 'em, I reckon. And them's good for selling, ye know. Ye and yer yellow friend can go lookin' for them herbs and every time ye get some for me, I'll give you something of my inventory in exchange! That way ye can start yer own trade sooner or later! How's that?"

"Awesome!" had been Harry's excited response.

The chocobo (whom Harry had named Sky Runner because, as he'd explained to a bemused O'aka with unfailing logic, it was way more cool than Road Runner – not that the perplexed merchant had understood the reference) was surprisingly intelligent, flapping his stunted wings excitedly and warbling at Harry or head-butting him lightly to communicate. From time to time he let out another loud 'kweh!' and the boy had soon learned to interpret it as delight.

Harry for his part loved to wrap his arms around his new friend's head, digging his fingers into the soft feathers and scratching, breathing in his nice, warm smell. He was happy the chocobo had apparently decided to adopt him and barely left his side even when he walked rather than riding, only running a little ahead at times and then returning to head-butt him or demand a scratch before running ahead again.

His excited warbling kept him entertained and he took to answer as if the creature was actually talking to him. O'aka laughed himself silly every time, but Harry wasn't fazed.

Often while they travelled through the Calm Lands, collecting stuff for O'aka's trade or running around for the hell of it, they'd spotted other yellow birds who were idly clawing at the ground or eating the grass and in the end, in one of their wild runs, Harry and Sky Runner had happened upon Clasko's ranch.

Sky Runner had immediately started kwehing and warbling, to which several others chocobos in a pen had warbled and kwehed back in greeting, attracting the young man with bowl-cut dark hair and a somewhat uncomfortable air. He'd been very surprised at seeing the pair, but not unhappy, and while Sky Runner had stayed out and made friends with the other chocobos, Harry had been led through the caves where Clasko ran his chocobo breeding program and shown around with a mixture of pride and embarrassment.

Oblivious to his new acquaintance's discomfort, he'd bombarded the poor man with questions, enthralled by everything he'd seen.

Calsko had been rather shy at first, but eventually, as they'd been making their way back outside after Harry had cooed and aahed over the baby chocobos in the nests inside, he had found the courage to ask about the boy's chocobo friend: "He's tame, isn't he?"

Harry had been rather perplexed at the question: "Well, he's my friend."

"But how did he end up with you? Did someone give him to you? Is someone else breeding chocobo?" had asked Clasko, unable to hide his anxiety.

Harry had frowned, glancing over to where Sky Running was ducking out of the way of two other chocobos pursuing him and flapping his wings threateningly at them, even while warbling excitedly like it was just a game. Harry'd reflected that it probably was. "I don't know, sir. He found me out in the plains and just started following me. We have a lot of fun together," he'd told Clasko, a bit defensively.

The man had smiled faintly: "I do not doubt it. But… do you mean to say that a chocobo just up and started following you? What did you do - lure him with greens?"

Harry had perked up: "The Gysahl Greens, ye mean? I'm s'posed to find some. Do ye know where I could…?"

"I can give you some," had allowed Clasko. "But I would really like to know how you did it."

Harry'd shrugged, unsure how to explain: "It just sort of happened."

Clasko had goggled at him, floored, but eventually he'd shrugged: "Ah, well. Maybe he used to be tame at some point or something. Some of the chocobos of these plains are like that, anyway – they grow easily fond of humans, if you're lucky enough to befriend one."

Harry had smiled brightly.

"Still, if you're that good with wild chocobos, I was wondering… would you like to stay around and lend a hand? I could use some help here in the ranch!"

Harry's mouth had opened in shock at the proposal, but he'd soon started to bounce around excitedly: "Can I help taking care of the baby chocobos? Can I? Pleeaasee…!"

From then on, he'd taken to show up rather regularly at the Chocobo Ranch, getting Gysahl Greens as payment for his work – enthusiastically doing easy chores like mucking the stalls, feeding and watering the chocobos, and sometimes even assisting Clasko with applying meds when a bird got hurt – and learning tons in the meanwhile.

And not only about chocobos, either. Clasko wasn't as good a storyteller as O'aka, but Harry'd soon enough cajoled him into recounting his days as a Chocobo Knight over their shared meals.

"I didn't like it much there," had admitted Clasko after Harry had seemed disappointed that his friend was no longer one of the elite soldiers who mounted chocobos. "I spent much of my time being ordered around." He'd smiled faintly. "Even when we tried to join the Youth League, after the Eternal Calm started, nothing changed… my friends Lucil and Elma rose quickly to the positions of command but I just remained low in the ranks. I guess it wasn't for me…" He'd shrugged. "I never liked fighting either. Just did it because it seemed to be my duty, I guess."

"So how did you decide to start all this?" had asked Harry curiously.

"I suppose the idea came to me back in the days, even if I didn't feel confident that I'd ever manage. After Operation…" he'd chocked on the word, and Harry had felt uncomfortable, realizing that whatever he was thinking about, it was paining him. But Clasko had shaken his head determinedly: "Never mind; after a particularly bad moment in my life, most of our chocobos had died and I started thinking, wouldn't it be better to have tame chocobos ready instead of having to replace those we lost with wild ones and train them from scratch?"

He'd looked out in the distance for a while and then offered Harry his little, sad smile: "So in the end, I hunted down this place, got some help to free it from all the nesting fiends that had overrun it, and set up my Chocobo Ranch. At first I thought that maybe I could do a bit of both, raising chocobos and still helping out the Knights, but… I like this job so much that I just gave up on Lucil's corps altogether. I'm much happier now!"

"What happened to your friends from the Chocobo Knights?"

"Lucil's working hard with the Youth League. I don't know much of what they do, but I think it's what she's always wanted. Elma's been around a few times. She wants to reorganize the mounted Chocobo Knights… I've told her I'm not interested, but maybe I'll give her some of my birds… of course, I don't have any Destriers, only Coursers… but maybe, with some specific training they might be able to bear the weight of heavy armour and withstand the shock of cavalry charges… I wish I knew how they bred them back when the Chocobo Knights were active combat units!"

Predictably, it hadn't taken long for O'aka to find out what his young friend was doing when he went off on his own and how he got so much Gysahl Greens. Harry had excitedly told him all about the Chocobo Ranch as soon as the man had thought to ask.

To the boy's surprise, O'aka had looked less than pleased and pouted unhappily, demanding to be shown "this shrewd fella o' yers". He'd been rather rude to the poor former-Knight, too, when he'd finally met him, accusing a bewildered Clasko of all sorts of nefarious purposes for his "invading the lad's life".

Harry had been rather unsure what it was all about, until he'd realized that O'aka had been… jealous?

The concept had awed him. No-one had ever cared about having him around before! Just the opposite, in fact. Now Clasko needed him for the ranch and O'aka didn't want to lose him. How awesome was it?

On the heels of the happy insight had come the realization that two of his very first friends ever were at odds with each other and that had brought him a new apprehension. He didn't want that! And he didn't want it to be his fault!

So he'd whispered a suggestion into Clasko's ear that he just knew would win O'aka over and the young man, who had been floored at the hostility and unable to do more than babble at the belligerent vendor, had seized the advice gratefully: "Perhaps," he'd said a little awkwardly, "I could become an investor? My chocobos can be sent on errands to find treasures and other items, and then you could resell them, and just give me a percentage…"

Harry, who'd come to know O'aka pretty well, had giggled silently at his dumbfounded expression and counted in his mind: 'One, two…'

Before he'd reached 'three', O'aka had burst in exhilarated thanks, his ire nicely derailed: "Huh? You're really gonna give me gil? Well, ye aren't such a bad chap after all. Thank ye kindly! I'll be sure to pay ye back! Heh! Good idea this of usin' yer birdies. Now let's talk percentages…"

Once they'd worked out all the details of the new business, a much mellower O'aka had set the three of them down around Clasko's table to discuss Harry's situation: "The lad can't very well run back and forth from yer ranch if he's on the road with me, now can he?" he'd said reasonably. "'Specially since I'm leaving the Calm Lands in a couple weeks…"

Harry had been torn.

On the one hand, he'd come to like travelling with O'aka a lot. He was a lively, funny companion and he took care of Harry like no-one else ever had. Plus, journeying was great and the vendor had promised to show him all the wonders of Spira, which Harry couldn't wait to experience.

On the other hand, he loved chocobos. And it felt good to be needed. Clasko valued his help and it made him feel important. Not to mention, Sky Runner absolutely adored the ranch.

And on top of everything, Harry was still completely overwhelmed by the mere idea of someone wanting him around and he didn't want to make either of his friends sad. Not for anything!

But what to do?

In the end, they'd come to an agreement that had Harry bounce with joy. He'd stay with Clasko for a couple months, learning all about chocobos, then O'aka would drop by and take him around the world to some cool place, then he'd be back again for another two months at the ranch and then off again…

And Sky Runner would be able to stay with Clasko year-round, so Harry and O'aka could go visit places too cold or too crowded for the chocobo without worry!

It was perfect!

O'aka had left soon after with a merry: "I'll be back in six weeks. Call me if you need something, lad!"

Sky Runner had kweh-ed loudly and Harry had felt inclined to do the same…


	4. Safe and Wanted

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**

Safe and Wanted

So Harry's life on Spira had gone on happily.

When he stayed with Clasko, he took care of the chocobo, especially the fledglings, and studied the various herbs to heal them, strengthen them or develop their abilities, often getting mightily confused at the numerous varieties of Sylkis, Mimett and Pahsana Greens but trying his best nonetheless.

He helped with chores both in the ranch and at home, while Clasko concentrated on training his birds to be sent out to discover several hidden dungeons around Spira and bring back items for O'aka to trade, or worked in his lab to treat chocobo feathers for various uses – such as temporarily increasing the speed of the consumer.

In his free time, Harry and Sky Runner played together or ran around, generally having fun. Sometimes they joined the tourists at the settlement of the Calm Skies gaming company, where the managers were always willing to give him a few credits for the games if he assisted with their Publicity Campaigns, though Harry found that the funniest part was riding the hover from one attraction to another, rather than the games themselves; but he probably wouldn't have bothered dropping by so regularly if Sky Runner hadn't somehow learned how to get there without ever getting lost in the Calm Lands.

His chocobo friend was super smart! Harry had found himself chatting with him more and more often and Sky Runner always listened intently and offered comforting warbles or excited kwehs as needed. And speeding along with him was still the best way to enjoy free time!

Harry was also constantly on the look out, in case Lady Yuna and the Gullwings happened to pass by. True to his heroine-worship, Harry had quickly ferreted out all that Clasko knew about her and the gentle man had not only admitted to having met the High Summoner several times during her legendary pilgrimage, but also confessed that she dropped by his ranch from time to time. Harry kept hoping it would happen while he was there.

When it was O'aka's turn to take him away, they travelled here and there, wherever it stroke the vendor's fancy, and met loads of interesting people.

Several times they'd gone to the Moonflow, where Harry liked spending time with Tobli's Hypello assistants: the blue, frog-like lazybums were totally sweet and funny and always indulged him in his games. Too bad that after a while, catching a ride on their shoopufs became really boring, even at night when the pyreflies gathered on the surface of the river, making the water glow and sparkle and the moonlillies on the banks shine softly.

Twice they'd visited Kilika, where O'aka was always sure to find good customers. Harry was forever hoping they'd head there because the easiest way to reach the island was by boat and he simply adored sailing. He spent most of his time aboard climbing like a monkey up the masts, the lively wind ruffling his ever-untidy hair and leaving a faint taste of salt on his tanned skin.

Kilika itself had a tropical feel that reminded him of the advertising in Aunt Petunia's glossy magazines, with its cute little huts, wooden floating docks and all the palms. Beyond the small bustling port and village there was a large jungle, on the far side of which Kilika Temple was built, atop a fire mountain. The view from there was breathtaking, especially at sunset.

The people of the island eagerly bought or traded O'aka's merchandise, but they weren't as welcoming as elsewhere in Spira. Often they were too tense and worried to bother chatting with strangers: the town had been greatly affected by the political struggles of New Yevon and the Youth League - many families had been separated, friends split apart – and the wound was still too fresh.

Despite the almost discouraging atmosphere, Harry hadn't failed to make a detour to the famous (or infamous) Staircase, to watch the blitzballers training their endurance there. He'd even managed to obtain an autograph from Vuroja, the one-eyed Captain of the Kilika Beasts, and then he'd proceeded to lose it on the way to Luca, much to his dismay.

Luca… City of Hope… City of Fun… Naturally, they'd made their way there for the blitzball season!

O'aka wouldn't miss such a chance for making a name for himself in the second largest city in Spira; especially since, as he'd told Harry, "Durin' the tournament, the people here are so into the game, they don't even look at what they're buying. Gotta love blitz, eh?"

Harry couldn't agree more: he had been over the moon with the excitement at the idea of a true blitzball event.

He had been bouncing all the way as they approached, eagerly taking in all the elegant details of the city, with its interlocking circles of coloured cobblestones and flowing script-like ornaments on the buildings; but it had been the incredible blitzball stadium that had impressed him beyond words, rising as it did like a huge snow globe from the ground it was embedded in, at the centre of Luca's docks, and shimmering under the sun with swirling tones of deep blue, topped by the bright flame that capped it like a hook drawing it from the sea up towards the sky.

Just like it promised, Luca had been full of fun! Exciting Blitzball games and performances at the Sphere Theatre, flags everywhere, flapping merrily in the wind, and enormous balloons of every shape, parades on the streets and fireworks over the sea… every time was show time in Luca!

If Kilika had been the start of Harry's unofficial (and quite scattered) crash course in politics, as O'aka had decided that he needed to have a clue about how and why the factions that had established themselves in the time since the coming of the Eternal Calm were clashing, Luca had been his chance of meeting and fooling around with kids his age.

Since the stadium had represented a fundamental symbol of hope for Spira during the awful times of Sin, its city had always been better protected than most other places: not only the Crusaders fought to defend it with all their strength, but the Chocobo Knights did too, as well as the Warrior Monks during the blitzball season, when Maesters of Yevon were known to visit. As a consequence, a lot more families had felt confident enough to raise their offspring there and Luca had quite a number of children around his age or a little younger with whom he could play - a rare thing on Spira.

Harry had been both shy and wary at first, remembering all too well his less-than-stellar record of aborted friendships back with the Dursleys, but luckily, blitzball was a wondrous ice-breaker. In no time at all, he'd been running around and shouting with a group of kids, playing and laughing and attempting to mimic their favourite blitzballers.

That wasn't to say all had gone perfectly smoothly: in fact, Harry had managed to end up with a split lip (though for once, he'd been able to return a black eye) in a brawl with a stupid kid who thought the Luca Goers were better than the great Gullwings. As if!

The Gullwings were Lady Yuna's team – and he didn't even know why he'd been surprised to find out, as clearly, she could do anything, so why not blitzball? – and therefore obviously the best ever!

Harry had pouted for an entire day when O'aka had reprimanded him, even while cleaning up the little wound solicitously. It's not like he couldn't take a beating, he'd had much worse from Dudley and his gang! And that kid was just asking for it…

But when he'd tried to tell O'aka so, the merchant had just shaken his head disapprovingly: "And what did ye get from it, hm? Ye oughta have sold that brat some Goers flags or somethin' and then used his gil to show yer support of the Gullwings! Now that's a Trader's way – none of this brawling business!"

A rather shell-shocked Harry had just stared at the disapproving vendor. Talk about a different way to look at things…! But, maybe he did have a point… this bore consideration…

By sheer chance, they had happened to be in Luca again about a year later, when the greatest leaders of their time, Nooj of the Youth League, Gippal of the Machina Faction, and Baralai of New Yevon, had given their instantly-celebrated speech, announcing the dissolution of their respective factions for the peace of the world.

Harry had watched with growing respect the three famous friends, impressed by their demeanour and actions.

Nooj had stood between the other two, clad in crimson red, doing nothing to hide the machina prosthetics he'd replaced his left arm and leg with after losing them during a battle against Sin: indeed, he displayed them proudly, despite how odd they looked, especially next to his extremely traditional but logic-defying hair-style, that had made Harry think of dry branches in a petrified forest, and the short mantle of white fur thrust over one of his shoulders, not to mention his smoky glasses and the surprisingly lilac boots and gauntlets.

The tall muscled form of the former Crusader, who'd survived his own attempt to seek a warrior's death, had easily captured everybody's eyes and his forceful charisma had held their attention effortlessly.

Baralai had been a calm presence at Nooj's side, stiffly handsome in traditional ceremonial attire, the light colours and sturdy fabrics lined with belts and bands and stripes elegantly inscribed with prayers: his high collar aided his mask of expressionless seriousness, while his posture screamed even from a distance his sense of duty and his reluctance to be swept away by the winds of change.

On Nooj's other side, the exuberant Gippal had sure cut a fine figure in his armour and practical clothes full of blues and purples, a cocky and self-assured grin stretching wide under his cool black eye-patch. His spiky blond hair and the peculiar spiral pupils of his green eyes had been the source of an unseemly amount of giggling on the part of what had to be the silliest bunch of girls Harry had ever had the misfortune of sitting next to.

If Nooj's was Spira's strength and determination and Baralai its faith and integrity, Gippal was its energy and resourcefulness. Even in that serious, significant moment, he had had a devil-may-care attitude, though he'd followed his friends' lead in his actions dutifully enough.

Together, they had made an inspiring picture. So strong and stubborn, so honourable and resolute, so determined to do the best for their world.

Some of their words had fallen right into Harry's soul and found a place there, to be remembered forever.

_My friends and I dreamed of flying… We would sail a ship, with me as its captain… Others chose a different ship, a different captain… but... Somehow we forgot. There's a much larger ship out there. One we've been riding ever since we were born. That ship is Spira…_

And more: _There are some things you can't do alone. But they become easy with friends beside you._

...He would not forget.

Of course, rumours abounded before and after the speech and everyone and their pets seemed to have a different version of the Vegnagun crisis and how it had been dealt with.

Harry's heroine worship was nicely fuelled by the buzz about Lady Yuna having saved the world _again_, which seemed to be confirmed by the three leaders meeting with her just before delivering the famous speech. Of course, it might just have been respect for the High Summoner… or maybe there was some truth about Lady Yuna's friend Paine being in love with one of them… or all of them… or vice versa… but whatever. Harry loyally stuck with the idea that Lady Yuna had defeated Vegnagun, like she had Sin!

It was too bad that all he'd been able to see of her was her red airship streaking through the light blue sky, taking her to her next adventure.

After that, things had gone back to normal, or as normal as they could in a world that was still healing in the time after Sin, with O'aka dragging him here or there whenever he'd caught wind of a 'new market' or a 'special piece' from an inn or another traveller… Harry had never dreamed of objecting, naturally: wandering around was grand and he couldn't wait to see all of Spira's beauty.

Even after months of travelling, Harry was still amazed at how much colour there was everywhere in this world: bright yellows and shimmering blues, deep greens and warm browns, purples and reds and indigos… even the greys were intense. Sometimes Harry had the sensation that even the atmospheric effects, like mist, were multicoloured here: or maybe it was just the all too frequent will-o'-the-wisps, floating around off in the distance. Needless to say, he found it all fascinating.

The only bad note in his days, or rather his nights, had been the nightmares that plagued him at times.

In them, he felt trapped into the mind of a monster – a mind that was icy cold and slippery, like a deep cave where the sun cannot reach, but at the same time, as sharp and as deadly as a diamond knife. Sometimes he saw actual scenes: at first of a non-descript blobish thing… attacking a fiend voraciously, sucking up its blood and stealing its magic… greedily approaching a sickly looking round rock held up on an ugly claw-shaped pedestal, desire for power, ever more power, overwhelming every thought… watching the image of a tall pale teen, his appearance wildly crazed, reflected in a spring, a lurking presence filling his eyes with dark madness… later, it was almost always a weird settlement and men in grey clothes with odd headbands… men being hurt, beaten, burned, dying… men trapped in cages and tanks, or bound to walls… Harry was severely unnerved at how all those men were so openly terrified of him in those visions… and there were snakes, so many snakes, and they could talk… the most unsettling thing for him was the lust for pain, death and blood that filled him during the nightmares, leaving him sick and retching when he eventually managed to shake himself free of the horrid images…

And always, at some point or another, the nightmares would be filled with red eyes and a high-pitched, cackling laugh, then everything would be drowned in a sickly, green light.

Those awful nights weren't a common occurrence, for which he was unspeakably grateful, but it was unsettling enough that it made Harry almost physically ill to think of it. The carelessness with which the monster callously killed those who were helpless in his power… he didn't want to see or feel that!... why did he keep dreaming of that monster?

O'aka hadn't known how to help him. Nightmares were normal, everybody got them now and then: he couldn't seem to understand why Harry was so bothered by it. Harry couldn't explain it either. He just felt – or was that feared? – that those visions had a larger importance than was apparent.

However, the wrinkled old lady with a short fuse that held lessons for the kiddies in Luca had told him in a no-nonsense tone: "It's never smart to speculate about the meaning of dreams!" so he hadn't. Much.

Other than that, anyway, his life was great, and he'd been all set to continuing like this.

Until six months earlier, when everything had changed.

The day that would ultimately change Harry's destiny yet again had started off like any other, with him and O'aka packing up their tent after a healthy breakfast. They had been planning to tour the Mi'hen Highway until they reached the Moonflow, then pass into the Macalania Woods, which Harry greatly wished to see again, and visit with O'aka's brother before returning to Clasko's ranch for Harry's next period there.

They had been travelling slowly, partly because there were plenty of people milling about the Highroad now that most of the irritating fiends had been taken care of and so O'aka had been making some interesting business deals, and partly because Harry had been continually distracted by the amazing ruins scattered everywhere.

As it every so often happened, another group of travellers had camped nearby in the same clearing that night, a group of friends heading for Djose. They had traded a few words amicably while they all got ready to set off.

Quite by chance, one of the travellers had mentioned a scholar who was "showing off a scroll on breeding chocobo for combat". Harry had instantly perked up. This was something Clasko would love to know! So naturally, he'd charmed the man into telling him more and cajoled O'aka into scouting the supposed location of this scholar out…

They hadn't found him, but as an offset, they'd stumbled on a set of interconnected caves that had O'aka go from grumbling and pouting to raving in raptures in ten seconds flat, as they turned out to be filled with Dark Matter just lying around, ready to be picked up: it was an extremely sought after substance, that could deal major damage to groups of fiends, no matter how numerous, and therefore highly prized by all, but normally rare and difficult to procure. In front of the unexpected bounty, O'aka had gone into a frenzy, determined to collect it all.

Harry hadn't minded: exploring the tunnels to find the odd-smelling lumps of black stuff had been like a game for him… and that was how he'd eventually stumbled (more literally than he cared to admit) on the half-hidden chest that granted him his Rod.

He lowered his eyes to the graceful, deceptively light weapon, stroking it lovingly.

It was about half his height, slender, with a spiralling design that made it look ever-moving, ever-changing with the light, though its primary colour was a dull bronze with eerie but beautiful metallic tinges of blues and greys. Its lower end was a pointy tip, while on its top, a graceful elaborated knob curved in an intricate pattern vaguely spherical but with a soaring delicate wing or wave at one end.

The very moment he'd touched it, Harry had felt a rush of _rightness_; he had slowly lifted it from its case, barely registering that a bright glow had illuminated the cave strangely, emanating from the slender rod and his own hands, spreading suffused light all over him.

He was lost in sensations, in the rush of speed and the joyful fun of riding Sky Runner, in an inner tune that spoke of wind and sea and freedom, in the rare but craved warm glow of a friend's hug. It was the most amazing, _wondrous_ feeling. His skin tingled pleasantly and all the hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention, making him shiver with an unexplainable delight. The light seemed brighter, the room suddenly filled with sounds, the feel of the cool air on his face was intensified and he could see a faint shimmer all around the things he looked at...

When O'aka had found him, he'd been just standing there, his eyes glazed and a beatific smile on his face, lovingly stroking the precious Rod.

The merchant had been flabbergasted. And at first, almost terrified.

When Harry had tried to describe the hummed melody that he was hearing, so beautifully haunting, so eerily touching, the poor man had been on the verge of tears. He could hear nothing of the sort and he'd been terrified that his young companion had run afoul of a cursed Item.

Gradually, though, he'd calmed down. Harry hadn't seemed harmed or even too upset by the whole thing, and in fact, had appeared to gain some beneficial effect from it. Nevertheless, O'aka had grabbed the child and dragged him away at full speed: "To meet the one who's gonna know 'bout this kind of stuff!" he'd muttered, all too aware that he wasn't qualified to judge whether Harry was in danger from the Rod or not.

Harry had been still too far out of it after the warm tingling rush that had suffused him to say more than "Huh?"

O'aka had made an impatient noise at the boy's blank face and cried dramatically: "To Besaid!" before simply hauling the stunned Harry on his shoulders and starting to run.

By night-time Harry had recovered enough to be insanely curious about his finding and more and more excited at their destination.

Besaid was Lady Yuna's childhood home!

From the ship taking them to the small southern island, he had watched avidly the approaching large beach and seaport, as well as the landscape of luxurious woods with many clear waterfalls, and scattered ruins of the ancient Machina City it used to be before Sin destroyed it half-hidden throughout the forest.

The only village was famous for the fabrics and clothes it produced and many examples of brightly coloured and attractive geometrical patterns were proudly displayed on garments, tents and curtains.

It truly looked like a fine place to live.

Reactions to their arrival, and to O'aka's grand tale about Harry's odd-looking Rod, varied from disbelief to awe and from worry or even fear to joy and hope. Confused, Harry had reverted to being shy and quiet, nervously running his hands up and down the shaft. He couldn't understand what the big deal was, but somehow, everybody was wondering and discussing and conferring about it!

At least, everybody had agreed that High Summoner Yuna needed to know and she was quickly contacted via CommSphere. Her former Guardians, Lulu and Wakka, had invited O'aka and Harry in their home while they waited for the Celsius to make their way to Besaid.

Their small but well-furbished hut was cosy and snug, full of colourful cloths, blitzball paraphernalia and unsettling rows of dolls that Harry had eyed warily.

The family inhabiting it was a study in contrast. Harry just couldn't understand how those two had ended up together. They might both have grown up in Besaid, but that was about as much as they had in common!

Wakka was a typical inhabitant of that tropical island, from his cheerful brightness and boisterous vibrancy to his full accent, whose every syllable seemed to bounce into sunbeams before rolling to the listener; Lulu, dark and stoic and gothic, might as well have come from a different world.

She was usually dressed in an outlandish fur-lined black dress with an incredibly odd collection of interlaced belts below the waist, and wore her hair tied up in a knot at the top with long braids dangling from it, tied with glossy beads. It was poles apart from Wakka's chocobo-yellow trousers and electric blue headband, but also completely different from the attire of the other residents of Besaid.

She was also highly intelligent and questioned the world around her and everybody in it, herself included, with analytical precision, as well as being often stern and scathing (particularly to her husband); Wakka on the other hand was kind, but very dependent on others' judgement and rigid in his opinions and ideas of what should and should not be done.

Most of all, Lulu was intimidating, since she was an accomplished black mage – which was impressively scary.

Harry had been completely flabbergasted when O'aka had muttered an explanation about the collection of puppets that watched him glassy-eyed and forbidding from the walls of the hut, disquietly harmonious amidst the cheerfully bright cloths: apparently, Lulu used the various Mog, Cait Sith, Moomba, Cactuar, and PuPu dolls to help cast powerful spells. It was mind-boggling.

And intriguing, of course. No one, not even Wakka, knew how she controlled them and she'd gone all mysterious when Harry'd tried to ask.

Despite his feeling unnerved by her dolls, he'd found watching her fight the odd fiend bold enough to attack the paths an absolutely mesmerizing experience.

It was as if she was scooping up something invisible – some energy maybe – and bringing 'it' close to her dolls to be shaped, before imperiously releasing it on the incautious fiend who dared attack her, with sharp slashing gestures that somehow provoked devastating fire explosions, or lightning bolts spearing the ground, or a cone of ice sprouting from the earth to impale her foe…

When he concentrated real hard, Harry could see flickering green tinged wakes trailing her wide sweeping gestures, or simply circling her rapidly, that he supposed were the 'magic' she gathered and used. It was fascinating. Scary, but fascinating.

Still, it was yet another thing that seemed to separate her from the down-to-earth, far less powerful and more importantly far less mysterious Wakka!

However, there could be no doubt that they were in love. It was evident in the look that softened their eyes when they caught sight of each other, in the quiet encouraging faith in her husband Lulu showed in countless little moments, in the determined devotion with which Wakka took care of his wife.

And in little Vidina, the adorable baby with his father's red hair and his mother's black eyes.

Harry and O'aka had been welcomed with generosity by the two former Guardians, though when the merchant had started on Wakka with: "Say, man, you wouldn't have a bit o' Gil to lend?" Lulu's wrathful glare had invested the poor vendor in full, turning the man into a pitiful whimpering whiner, who interspersed his mutterings of 'Should've expected as much' and 'What's an O'aka to do, I ask ye!' with scared peeks at the scowling woman.

Harry had had less trouble fitting in. Lulu's stern and elegant seriousness had rather intimidated him at first, so he had been unfailingly polite and subdued around her; while playing with her baby under her watchful gaze, however, he had quickly realized that even if she didn't smile much, deep down Lulu was truly a very caring person.

Baby Vidina was about as big as his mother's dolls but much more fun to play with. He seemed to be fascinated with Harry's glasses and would squeal loudly and grab them with his little pudgy hands and immediately stuff them in his little ruby mouth, grinning toothlessly and adorably like only a newborn could. Harry didn't know whether to laugh or despair.

He usually retaliated pulling the red pom-pom on his carrying cloth and letting it go abruptly to make it bounce back and forth. The baby would always goggle and roll his eyes wildly to follow it and bat at it with his little hands like a mischievous kitten, trying to grab the bright little cloth-ball and never quite managing!

Lulu would regard Harry softly when he played with her baby and Harry had managed to realize that she did, indeed, have a hidden bit of gentleness underneath her stoic demeanour. He had also figured out quickly that if he stayed quiet and didn't do anything dangerous she'd mellow and be less harsh to him: most of the time, she only berated him out of protectiveness. She was also the best to give patient and uncomplicated explanations, especially after Wakka had managed to confuse him with some befuddling comment or other. And she was very attentive to the state of his clothes, and how much he was eating, and made sure he knew the proper way to behave in every situation and… really… it was a bit like the mums he'd seen during his travels or earlier, before the Magic…

When he'd realized it, he'd been startled. Badly. A… mum? Sorta? He just didn't know how to take it. It was fabulous and astonishing and what he'd always dreamed of back in his cupboard, but also confusing, tiring, _frustrating_, and simply overwhelming.

Luckily, he had soon been too distracted to ponder his own mystifying feelings, because the airship Celsius had arrived and finally, he'd met the Gullwings – and Lady Yuna herself!

His heroine was everything he'd imagined her to be.

She was brave and determined, polite in every situation, generally soft-spoken and very driven, but also quite playful, vivacious and open-minded; she was always ready to lend a hand to whoever appealed to her, but she could be quite stern and even intimidating if someone provoked her. She was generous, but strong minded, she cared for her friends deeply and was respectful of their opinions and wishes, but had no fear expressing her own thoughts and desires.

Everything from her unusual bi-coloured eyes to her lively clothes - a halter-neck top with a pink hood in the back, yellow armbands over her biceps and denim boyshorts – invited trust and camaraderie, while the little touches she, like everyone in Spira, used to make her outfit unique – the red braid that stretched down to her ankles and the ankle-length blue and white sash – showed playfulness and friendliness. Harry certainly wasn't the only one who couldn't help responding in kind whenever she smiled.

Upon arriving, she'd vaulted down from the rooftop of the Celsius with an acrobatic move that had torn an admiring shout from Harry, immediately followed by a perky blonde in a yellow string bikini and an olive green mini-skirt, demanding to know what "Disasteriffic mess" they were needed for, and a tall and serious young woman with short, silver hair, shaking her head at their antics.

Harry had known instantly that they were Lady Yuna's best friend – Paine – and favourite cousin – Rikku: the three of them had made quite a name for themselves all over Spira, what with their willingness to rush to anybody's aid, be it by fighting monsters or selling tickets, solving disputes or finding hidden treasures…

In short, they were awesome.

Harry thought that the way they lived, always travelling around, seeing amazing things, helping others, was totally amazing!

Maybe he'd do the same when he grew up.

The Gullwings had greeted O'aka merrily and the merchant had wasted no time in introducing his young friend and explaining the situation.

To Harry's delight and embarrassment at the same time, Lady Yuna had been very interested in his Rod and very, very surprised at the reaction it had to him – and to her.

She'd asked him to explain in detail how he'd come to have it; Harry had done so… mostly… but had hesitated a bit before confessing about the melodious hum that no-one else seemed to hear, worried that she might mock him or think him crazy.

To his great surprise, Lady Yuna could hear it too, and moreover, she'd been able to explain why most people couldn't.

"Harry…" she'd told him with a gentle smile: "You're a Summoner!"

She'd laughed kindly at his wide, disbelieving eyes: "I suppose I should say that you have the _potential_ to be a Summoner. It is an innate talent… I was like you." She'd held out her hand: "Will you let me take your Rod for a moment?"

"Uh… yeah… sure, of course…" he'd blushed and handed it over.

She had taken it gently and to his surprise, she'd got the same effect from it – a sweet, eerie hum. Then she'd swung it around and around in a fluid pattern and it had _worked magic._

Light purple wisps of smoke had appeared beside her and swirled in a spiral around the Rod, then she'd lifted it high, calling out: "_Armour of light, halt physical might!"_

The purple smoke had turned into a ray and shot towards Rikku, who'd smiled, and it had sprung upwards in front of her, shaping into a membrane that looked a bit like a beehive.

Then it had disappeared, but Paine had said quietly: "Watch!" and she'd attacked her friend with her huge red sword.

Harry had cried out, but the weapon hadn't harmed the cheerful girl: Lady Yuna's protection had flared into existence at the last instant, deviating the blow. Rikku had just laughed gaily while Harry gaped, completely awed.

"Right, then!" had declared Lady Yuna decisively: "We're staying here for a while! That way I'll be able to teach Harry about his powers!"

Naturally, such a declaration had resulted in everybody on the Celsius demanding to meet him. For his part, Harry had been insanely curious. It had been the first time he got into close contact with actual Al-Bheds, as O'aka still tried his best to avoid them at every turn…

They were… huh... loud. Disconcerting. And unbelievably straightforward. Harry had been dumbfounded at how open and expressive they were: whenever they talked they gesticulated wildly and regularly made faces to put across their emotions. They weren't the most rational people around either.

Brother had towered over him inflating his chest and shadow-boxing ridiculously while shouting at him in the Al Bhed language. Harry had stared at him wide-eyed, completely bewildered and at a loss to understand him.

Given his looks, the wild and violent body-language was even more nerve-shattering: Brother's blond hair was shaved on the sides, leaving only a strip running down the middle in a stiff crest and his ears were adorned with multiple earrings, which along with the impressive tattoos on his bare chest and arms all contributed to make him look dangerously unreliable.

Brother wasn't the only one on board that might be classified as eccentric, however, if Rikku's reaction to his shenanigans was anything to go by: she'd jumped up and down in a show of fury, making her braids bounce like crazy off her shoulders and her incredibly long scarf flap madly. Then she'd screamed irately: "Leave him alone, you big meanie! Or I'm gonna kick you in the spleen!"

Brother had switched to English, apparently without even noticing: "Rikku! How dare you speak to your leader like that!"

"Ooh! Shut up, already!" had retorted the spitfire, narrowing her eyes and waving her fists threateningly.

Exasperated, Brother had started shouting back: "Who is the leader? I am! I give orders around here!" As far as attempts to maintain order went, that had been pretty comical, since his effort to loom over her, hands on his hips and looking down on the much shorter girl, had had no effect but to have Rikku mirroring the pose looking up just as furiously.

Brother had then tried gesticulating and yelling something indecipherable in Al Bhed, but the only effect had been a deepening of Rikku's scowl and a very sound kick in the man's shin from the indomitable girl.

Yuna, as always the pacifier, had tried to apologize to Harry, saying that Brother had always been overprotective of her: "He… he doesn't mean harm, you know? It's just… I'm afraid Brother sometimes acts without thinking…" She'd smiled with embarrassment at a bewildered Harry.

"Most times!" had interjected Rikky with a belligerent shout.

"That no true!" had bellowed Brother back.

"What about that time you hit me with the Thunder spell!" the tiny blonde shrieked, "I was terrified of lightning for years!"

"I was trying to save you! Hunt that fiend away!"

"I had to camp out in the Thunder Plains for a week before I stopped collapsing in helpless terror every time they struck near me!"

"Yes… poor Rikku was severely traumatized by that event…" added Yuna uneasily.

"Yuna!" had cried Brother, looking stricken, dismayed and dejected all at once.

Yuna, alarmed at the idea of having offended a friend, had hurriedly added: "But, I know you were trying to save her! And, and… reacting promptly is a good thing! It means you're always ready for anything!"

Brother had perked up instantly, showing off his muscles ridiculously and looking as if she'd given him a medal and a new house to store it in.

Paine had sighed exasperatedly and shaken her head, muttering about 'hopelessly soft-hearted girls and foolish smitten morons'.

Harry, too bewildered for words, had just nodded warily and dubbed the whole thing 'grown-up craziness'. He'd done his best to steer clear of the wild and somewhat obsessive man with the tattoos, though. No need to catch whatever had gone to his head!

His meeting with Shinra had gone about as well.

All Al Bhed had a keen interest in Spira's technological past, even going so far as to organize salvage operations and excavations of and for ancient machina, but Shinra took it on a whole other level. His passion for technology… obsession might be the better word for it!

At any rate, the young Al Bhed boy was a technical prodigy and unfortunately, he knew it. It's not that Harry wasn't impressed by the fact that a kid his age had practically invented something as unbelievably complicated and remarkable as the Garment Grid system, not to mention the CommSphere communicators, but his annoying way of stating repeatedly: "I know...everything" in a rather arrogant tone wasn't very endearing. Especially since he refused to give Harry the time of day after he realized the other boy hadn't even used a computer before. It's not like it was Harry's fault! He'd never been allowed one – or had a chance, here in Spira!

He got away with making Harry feel stupid for not keeping up with his genius yet as soon as things got tough and his knowledge was no longer enough, he shrugged any request for help off with a dismissive: "I'm just a kid." It was beyond irritating.

At least Barkeep was nice. Boring, but nice.

But it was Buddy who'd wormed his way into Harry's personal list of Very Favourite People.

A close friend of Brother and co-founder of the Gullwings (Harry had laughed himself silly when Rikku had told him that they were named in honour of the unfortunate gull that had led Brother and Buddy to the Celsius during their journey to Spira's freezing north, and got eaten for the trouble when they finished all their food!) Buddy was the navigator of the Celsius and, basically, a more focused and level-headed counterpart to the erratic Brother.

Even his outfit was a more sensible version of Brother's own, without any weird tattoos and with sensible jeans and a matching vest, but still cool - very al-bhedish, from his hard-wearing, waterproof boots to the goggles that made him look more eccentric and mysterious.

When they'd met, Buddy had frowned at Harry's battered glasses and snatched them away, ignoring Harry's indignant protests. "Oh-oh!... these won't do at all!" he'd stated. With that, he'd disappeared somewhere in the bowels of the airship, while the others distracted Harry.

When he'd reappeared, Buddy had handed him a pair of thick, orange goggles with a smug grin.

Harry had stared at it.

"They're for you," had explained Buddy, looking very proud of himself. "I used your lenses but put them in a sturdier frame. Plus, I tweaked the lenses a bit."

"Tweaked?" had breathed Harry, hardly believing his eyes.

"See here, on the left side? If you turn this small wheel, it will allow you to zoom, like a Sphere recorder."

Harry had stared, confused: "Zoom?"

"Like binoculars! All lenses have something called a focal length, which is the distance from the optical centre of the lens to the focal point of what you can see. Normally, this is fixed as the lens never change position. Here, though, I – well, Shinra and I to be honest – we've made it so that the position of the lens can change as you zoom in and out. As you zoom in the focal length increases. As you zoom out the focal length decreases. That way you can see things closer or farther away as you need! Aaand… we added a sonar, too!"

"Sonar?" Harry had asked, obviously unfamiliar with the term and rather dazed.

"It's something we copied from the Thunder Imps, who send out high-pitch sound waves that bounce off their surroundings and come back to their sensitive ears, determining location and movements of their surroundings. You just have to push this little button here on the right and… it should be like seeing in the dark. Sorta." Buddy had grinned widely: "Much better than normal goggles, huh?"

Harry had gaped at the Al Bhed for a moment, and then pounced on him and clutched him in a squeezing hug, struck mute by gratitude!

As for the so-called 'YRP', they were three amazing young women and everybody seemed to adore them. Although Paine remained aloof and mysterious, which apparently intimidated a few of the inhabitants of Besaid, and Rikku was so loud and hyperactive several people were fondly exasperated around her, Yuna was beloved by all and it was clear that the villagers felt better knowing she was home.

Lulu and Wakka were no exception, in their own peculiar ways. The three 'girls' had been instantly invited to stay at their place and Harry had accidentally overheard a question and answers session about Yuna's lifestyle and her recent adventures that showed Lulu's care and concern in every nuance of her words.

He hadn't wanted to pry and had tried to tactfully retreat without being spotted, but something Lulu had let slip had stayed with him.

Over the next few days, even as he'd thrown himself into so many new things with enthusiasm, the puzzling words had been nagging at the back of his mind. Eventually, he'd gathered the the courage to ask her about it: "The- the other day… I… kinda overheard…" he'd smiled sheepishly at her raised eyebrow, but soldiered on: "You said Yuna was your little sister. That you didn't want to see her hurt."

He'd looked at the imposing woman intently. This was important.

"Of course I don't want to see her hurt," had replied Lulu very calmly, but Harry had shaken his head in frustration.

"No, that's not… I mean…" he'd taken a deep breath, clearing his thoughts: "Why did you say Yuna is your sister? You don't belong to the same family… or do you? I mean, someone would have said something…" he'd blundered a bit, but after all, Lady Yuna, the High Summoner who defeated Sin, was a celebrity. People knew everything about her!... or, so he'd thought…

"Child," Lulu had haughtily explained, "family has little to do with blood. It is love that makes a family. Thus Yuna is my little sister, because we love each other like sisters. Simple as that."

Harry had stared at her in open-mouthed wonder, while she'd turned to rock Vidina to sleep.

His marvel hadn't abated over the next days, until he'd had a chance to think it all over again. And come to some conclusions.

A couple days later, a very proud and moved O'aka had been promoted to Uncle, and after needling Buddy into taking him to the Ranch, Clasko had found himself with an unofficial little brother – not that he minded!

Harry's smile upon returning had been so big Wakka had teased him about splitting his face in two.

"It's just… well… Lulu was right, is all!"

Wakka had laughed. "She's always right. Better get used to it, ya?"

All this aside, anyway, most of Harry's time on Besaid Island had been dedicated to his training, for Lady Yuna had wasted no time in starting Harry's 'lessons'.

Gentle but strong, she had soon explained to him that when she had decided to follow in her father's footsteps and become a Summoner, she'd had to complete strenuous physical and mental training: "But that won't be necessary for you, I think. There is no Sin to defeat, nor any looming threat. I guess… you can take your time gathering strength and learn things a little bit at a time! I'll just get you started on the right path."

Harry had nodded fervently, not really knowing what to make of her declaration, but more than determined not to let her down.

"Right then! We'll start with some White Magic… that should help you learn how to focus and how to draw form your energy reserves… which I'd better teach you to compute in terms of Magic Points, as that's the easiest and most common way to do it…"

She'd trailed off a moment, then nodded firmly: "Yes! That's what we'll do."

Rikku had cheered encouragingly, and they'd begun.

* * *

_A/N:__ This is growing beyond expectations... I thought I'd be done with Harry's time in Spira in one chapter, and here I'm about to write the third... oh, well. Let me know what you think! Luna_


	5. An Unexpected Talent

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**

An Unexpected Talent

To Harry's slight chagrin, learning magic had not been as easy as waving his Rod around haphazardly and just hoping something would happen.

First he'd had to learn how to feel – and evaluate, gauge, somewhat measure - his own magical energy, which had required an unexpected (at least on his part) amount of sitting still and breathing softly and just concentrating and That. Was. Hard!

He'd found himself fighting all his instincts in order to actually _stay still _and quiet like Lady Yuna wanted him to, struggling to meditate and 'find his centre' like she was trying to teach him.

Meanwhile, she had given him a solid introduction to what White Magic was and what it could be used to accomplish, which could be summarized in the short motto: "Heal the body, heal the heart".

While a part of Harry had been a little disappointed that he wouldn't get to blow up anything, he'd been too excited at the idea of doing magic at all to let this bring his mood down and besides, he'd been hurt enough in the past to know how awesome it would be to be able to heal himself and others, or to protect his friends from harm.

Plus, there were also what Paine had called 'strategic spells': spells to make someone faster, or slow them down, or to scan an enemy to find out any weak points… there were endless possibilities in magic, even without getting to show off some flashy blast.

So he'd worked hard and diligently, impatient to learn it all.

Even though it was a tedious process.

First Yuna would have him memorize and repeat over and over the short invocations that 'shaped' the magic.

She'd explained that when he became more expert, he would be able to make up his own, and tweak the effects for what he needed or wanted, but as a beginner, it was better to use those already tried and true.

Harry hadn't minded too much, except that some incantations were really silly. If he wanted to counteract a poison or toxin, for instance, he had to shout: 'Light shine strong. Our woe begone!', which he had a hard time saying without breaking into chuckles. Same with the 'wellspring of health' he was supposed to call out for if he wanted to lend his magic to an ally to help them gradually recover over time…

Then again, there were some spells that were rather cool. Harry's favourite so far was: 'Mirror of light, reflect magical spite!' – which was supposed to make any magic bounce off and strike back at its caster, albeit more weakly. He couldn't wait to try it out, but he wasn't quite there yet.

Because, once he had the trigger rhyme down pat, Yuna would start him on the needed gestures ('somatic component', she'd called it) and he would have to practice the movements over and over and over again, until he could flow smoothly through the whole routine, without mistakes or hesitations.

Generally, it took enough repetitions to make his muscles burn with fatigue before Yuna even considered letting him try gestures and invocations in tandem. Only then would she let him cast something in a controlled, enemy-free environment.

So far he'd learned more than she'd expected him to, but nowhere near how much he wanted!

Even if it required hard work and a lot of patience, learning magic was _awesome_.

He had an innate talent that had quickly shown, surprising Yuna and even Lulu with the rapidity with which he learned and most of all, with the strength of anything he cast. From what he'd understood, it usually took a lot more experience before a white mage could obtain effects as powerful as his.

Soon Yuna and the others had started taking him out in the jungle, looking for fiends he would have to help protect them from, as 'practice'.

He would never forget the first time he'd cast a spell in combat…

They'd been facing a couple of Pairikas, fiends that looked like giant triangles of indigo cloth with lightning flowing through their body and a nightmarish skull-like grin emerging from it.

Lulu and Rikku had flanked him, ready to step in if he couldn't handle it, but they'd let him take the initiative. Yuna had called out from the sidelines: "Remember, this kind of fiend mostly uses magic!"

He'd nodded, a knot of tension and excitement in his stomach. He'd felt eager and nervous all at once.

Drawing his Rod in a vertical position in front of his eyes, he'd grabbed it firmly with both hands, then bowed his head, eyes closed, for a moment, just focusing; feeling the still new sensation of his magic gathering within him, he'd released the energy with a flowing outward flip of his hands, spreading his arms only slightly: "_Veil of light, ward wizardly might_!" he'd called out confidently.

Immediately, bright lines of coral pink neon light had sprung into existence, curving gracefully around him until he was encased in a spherical cage of sorts, which promptly glowed brightly white and vanished to sight.

He could still feel it, though, its presence a comforting veil between him and his foe, and when the fiend had thrown a blasting lightning bolt at him, he'd barely felt it: just a mild shock dancing over his skin, while most of the blast had been safely dispersed by his Shell.

"Oh, very well!" had cried Yuna happily. "Excellent work. But this is a fundamentally lightning-based creature, which uses almost only Thundara spells. So… try to cast a spell that protects against lightning damage! … do you remember it?"

"Yes!" Harry had cried, nodding determinedly and he'd taken a deep breath, concentrating… "_Shield us from thunderous bane!_" he'd yelled while twirling his Rod capably and instantly, a dark yellow orb had appeared next to him, circling his body and alighting a set of smaller, whitish sparks in his trail, while at the same time, similar dark yellow orbs of magic circled Lulu and Rikku.

Rikku had cheered enthusiastically, even as Lulu's well-placed Firaga had taken the fiends down quickly.

"Very well done, Harry!" had praised Yuna, smiling.

Harry had smiled back tiredly. It had been draining… but exhilarating!

It had soon become a common occurrence for the group to spend a couple hours a day roaming the paths around the village in search of 'practice battles'.

Yuna carefully monitored Harry's efforts, helping him refine his spellcasting, while Paine and Rikku supported him, ready to protect him if things got out of hand.

Lulu had stopped accompanying them after the first time, because she'd come back to Besaid to find that Wakka and the Aurochs, who were supposed to baby-sit little Vidina, had instead indulged in an impromptu game of blitzball on the beach.

The baby was unharmed, naturally, but bawling because the men had forgotten to change him. Lulu had not been pleased.

Harry and the girls had cautiously stepped outside her line of sight, less then eager to be caught in the black mage's scathing ire… Lulu's irritated voice had followed their retreat, threatening even if it wasn't directed at them: "Okay? Okay? That's all you have to say?"

Wakka's sheepish attempts at explaining himself hadn't done much good… "Well, yeah, I mean… he just… I know he was crying, but…"

"And whose fault is that, anyway?" Lulu had cut him off angrily.

"Not mine!" had denied Wakka vehemently.

The four youngsters had looked at each other, all too easily imagining the older woman glaring icily at her husband, and had run for it, before their unstoppable laughter caught her attention…

As a consequence, however, Lulu had declined any further involvement in Harry's training, seeing as she had to – in her words – 'babysit the irresponsible babysitters, or be sorely tempted to introduce them to pain'; so it was just 'the girls' with him.

Much to his disappointment, Paine had vetoed teaching Harry to use any kind of weapon, claiming that it would take too long for someone completely unfamiliar with any martial arts to choose an adequate style, find the proper equipment and learn enough to be able to defend himself.

"There is no way you can learn well without guidance and no certainty that you will have our supervision for long enough," she'd told him in her serious, cool tone. "It would do you more harm than good."

It was disappointing, but like it or not, Harry trusted the reserved young woman's judgement. Paine was tough and loved a good fight, but she was also sensible and level-headed: if she didn't think he should use weapons, then he probably shouldn't. She was rather quiet, and generally kept to herself, so when she did speak, everybody knew it counted.

Rikku, on the other hand, had had no qualms in teaching Harry 'a few cool tricks', as she had put it.

Harry loved having her around. Her lively presence had made many of 'Yunie's lessons' great fun. Spirited and energetic, she apparently never tired of bouncing excitedly all over the place, her trademark green, swirled eyes full of playfulness. She was at times somewhat childish, but also quite cheerful and positive, kind-hearted and strong willed.

She was also highly intelligent… and amazingly good at stealing a large variety of useful item from their foes, then mixing and combining and getting them to react until she got something great out of it all. Like bombs, for instance!

Sadly, she was a task-master and had forced Harry to spend long hours pouring over chemistry books instead of just letting him bungle his way through experimenting.

"You have to know what all goes together and how, and what'll happen if you botch it up!" she would tell him every time he complained. "Now list all the stuff you can combine with an L-Bomb to get a Cluster Bomb!"

It was all worth it, though, when he brought his first few attempts at Alchemy into battle: his concoction of musk and brimstone went off like a charm right within the paws of a sahagin, one of the many sluggish aquatic fiends that often made their way to the beach, spraying water from their mouth on unsuspecting sunbathers. The small bomb went off beautifully, a limited but satisfyingly noisy explosion of flames that blasted the annoying creature into non-existence.

Harry had grinned hugely. Blowing up stuff was great!

It hadn't all been about magic and fighting, though, or even just about studying. Yuna had regularly interspersed Harry's training with explanations and discussions, making sure he realized that being a Summoner was more than just being able to cast a few spells or, eventually, call forth an Aeon.

"Sin might no longer be there," she'd told him firmly, "but if the Summoners' power has not disappeared, then neither have our duties. Summoners and their Guardians used to be kind of like Spira's ray of light, in the days of Sin. A lot of people depended on us. Still do, in a way, as evidenced by the reverence we are held into. But this means… we have responsibilities towards them."

Harry had looked at her doubtfully: "But if there isn't a Sin… then what…?"

"Never forget, Harry… a Summoner's first duty is always to his people. This power you've been granted must be used to help others," had said Yuna adamantly. "At times, it might not be clear how you can do so, but… this is your destiny. And your choice, I hope."

Harry had nodded, serious. "Do you really think it is… my destiny?" he'd asked. The idea was rather daunting, after all.

She had looked at him piercingly. "There must be a reason why you've been given that Rod. You will have to find out what that is…"

They'd been on the beach that day, walking leisurely on the foreshore, letting the gentle waves catch up to their feet now and then.

Harry had twirled his Rod in his hands absent-mindedly. "O'aka explained to me how Summoners went to Zanarkand to defeat Sin," he had offered rather uncertainly. He felt awkward at the mere idea of being a Summoner, let alone having a 'destiny' to fulfil.

Yuna had sighed. "There's… a little more to it than that." She'd looked far into the distance, the gentle murmur of the sea nearby and the wind playing softly with her brown locks.

"You know, I received my Enchanted Rod much the same way you have, back when I was a kid. I… thought I knew everything back then. Everything I needed to know… about what my duty was – my destiny."

She'd sighed: "My father was a High Summoner. I had grown up with tales of his skill, of his… sacrifice. I thought my fate was clear… I would step down the same path he had trod…"

She'd been silent for a moment, gazing downwards to the golden sand, gathering her thoughts.

"I grew up believing in the teachings of Yevon," she'd said eventually. "I believed… that Sin was our punishment for our vanity and that it would never go away… until we atoned for it. I… never really questioned it. I didn't know… didn't know how we were supposed to do it. Whether using machina was really that bad or not. If the Maesters of Yevon were truly leading us down the right path… I didn't know, but I didn't question. I believed that the Final Summoning was the only way to defeat Sin… the only way. And I believed that, no matter what, it was the right thing to do. To bring a Calm… even just for a little while. Even just for a moment… to let the people of Spira sleep serenely at night, walk in the sun with a smile, free of fear, free of worries… it was worth it, it was worth any sacrifice."

She paused.

"So I believed," she'd sighed.

"But you no longer do?" had asked Harry uncertainly.

Yuna had shaken her head a little, smiling sadly: "My pilgrimage… opened my eyes to many things. First I learned that the Church of Yevon was all a big lie. Then… well… one of my Guardians helped me see how pointless sacrifice in the name of victory is. 'We had no choice', that was our constant excuse… but… that way of thinking, it only brings regret."

She'd raised her gaze to look far, into the distance, into the blue sea and lighter sky stretched apparently forever.

"I still believe that doing all in my power to help others, to make their lives easier, safer, is worth any effort. But… I no longer think it is worth any sacrifice." She'd turned to look at Harry, hesitantly: "Do you understand the difference?"

Harry hadn't, not really.

So Yuna had rushed on: "I want peace. I want happiness. But I don't want friends to die... or fade away. I want to be able to smile… but also… to have those I love beside me, smiling with me. I don't want battles where we have to lose in order to win!" By the end, her voice had grown passionate, but then had broken again: "I don't want to be sad when I should be celebrating…"

"You don't look sad now," had blurted out Harry, not entirely grasping the sense of her speech.

Yuna had laughed softly, gaily. "No, because I'm not. I am… free, now, see? I have fulfilled my responsibilities as a Summoner, maybe in an unconventional way, but that's the fun, right? I have lived up to the expectations that were put on my shoulders just because I was the heir to a great legacy and I have gone on with my life… and I still have most of my family, my friends, at my side. So now I'm… happy. Serene."

She'd turned to look at him, the playful spark quite visible in her differently coloured eyes: "You will be as well, one day," she'd told him softly, with absolute certainty.

Harry had smiled back a bit uncertainly.

Fortunately for his still young mind, not all of their discussions had been so deep and complex. Sometimes Yuna had just wanted to help him cope with the inevitability of his becoming a public figure.

"One would think it's a good thing, to be famous," he'd grumbled once after yet another 'how to deal with troublesome petitioners, reporters, well-wishers and exalted who want to kill you' speech. "Blitzballers do their very best to be well-known!"

Yuna had laughed softly. "They, too, end up having the same problems, you know. Summoners are respected, treasured even, and that feels good. To be relied upon, to be welcomed everywhere, to see people excited by your mere presence, it is naturally very flattering, and brings joy. But, it is also a burden. When your opinion matters so much, you have to be cautious in giving it. When your influence can change lives, both for the better and for the worse, you have to weight the consequences of your actions carefully. And when everybody looks at you to make things better... you can't let them down, you see?"

Harry had grimaced. Yes, he had felt the weight of other people's hopes and expectations from the very start, and it kept growing day by day, even relatively hidden away as he was in Besaid.

"The worst thing is that no matter what, you'll always have eyes on you, to admire, but also to judge. I learned to watch my own actions and words at all times. And I used to practise smiling when I'm feeling sad, you know? It's hard. But it's essential. Summoners are those everybody looks to in times of troubles. People feel better if they think you can handle everything… if they believe nothing can get you down."

"But what if I do feel down?"

"If you're feeling down… smile. As if you're never hurt. As if you're never loosing hope... Be strong, for them. They rely on you… so… have faith."

Yuna's eyes had been clear and bright as she watched him, green sea and blue sky, a horizon of fortitude and freedom. "I know it's hard," she'd reiterated. "Just do your best. And don't worry… you won't be alone. I promise."

From time to time, Lulu had interjected with her own comments and recommendation, and Harry was comforted by the way she seemed to address both of them equally. It was disheartening to think he'd never be free of this kind of problems, but it made him feel less inadequate, to see that Yuna struggled with it all too.

"You must always be cautious," Lulu would say sharply, her eyes boring in Yuna in a way that suggested this wasn't a new piece of advice. "There will be those who would use your status and your power to their advantage, regardless of your goals, of the good of others, of morals. So beware!"

Yuna invariably nodded, but then just as consistently added: "But never forget that to refuse a call for help without a very good reason is… wrong, ok?"

More often than not, it was Paine who cut the exchange with one of her dry remarks, which generally went along the lines of: "It's your choice. And yours alone. Ultimately… only you can choose what to do with your gifts. You, and no one else!"

Sometimes it had been Harry who initiated their 'serious talks'.

"What's the fayth?" he had asked one night, trying to make sense of things. "The fayth Summoners pray to get their Aeons? How does _that_ work, anyway?"

Most people on the island were gathered around big bonfires, celebrating the Besaid Aurochs who would leave the next day for Luca and the annual blitzball tournament. Rikku had been making a spectacle of herself, shouting excitedly about something or other. Lulu had been scolding Brother for his usual antics, all the while keeping an eagle eye on her baby being passed around by the Aurochs like a luck charm. Even Paine had stood with the others, a glass in her hand, and had even been seen laughing once.

Yuna had been the only one to stay apart that night, gaze lost in the vastness of the night sky, contemplating the myriad of gleaming stars. Harry had been a little hesitant to disturb her, because she'd looked lost in bittersweet thoughts, but he'd really wanted to know.

She hadn't minded. She'd just smiled at him and motioned for them both to sit on a half-buried log nearby.

"The fayth are people who gave their lives to battle Sin, Harry," she'd explained. "Yevon took their souls, willingly given from their still-living bodies, and they lived on forever, trapped in statues. But when a Summoner took enough time to ask for it, if his heart was pure enough, true enough to Spira… the soul of the fayth emerged once again. That's what we used to call an Aeon."

"Aeon…" had whispered Harry reverently. It was a hard concept to grasp, a being of pure magic that would just come to someone's call – albeit a special someone.

Someone like Harry.

It was beyond incredible.

"Aeons are creatures of spirit magic," had continued Yuna. "They are the embodiment of the fayth's dreams, as evoked by the Summoner. The physical form of an idea, that can manifest in the real world thanks to the Summoner's power."

She'd fallen silent for a long moment, then struggled to put into words what was still missing from the explanation: "The mental link that forms between Summoner and Aeon… it is indescribable. The sheer… joy… it can offer… the reassurance and unconditional support that flows through such a bond… I… it is… rewarding. Deeply so."

She'd taken a deep breath.

"I miss it," she'd admitted quietly.

Harry hadn't said anything. He couldn't imagine… and yet, somehow, he did it all the time. Or at least tried to. It was all so very confusing, but very exciting too.

"And there's how many of the Aeons?" he'd asked, already dreaming of calling one to his side.

But Yuna had shaken her head. "There used to be Eight, and the Final Summoning, which worked differently," she'd explained. "But now they're gone…"

"You mean I won't be able to call them?" had asked Harry, disappointed. "Ever?"

"I don't know, Harry," had said Yuna apologetically. "Maybe there are still some Aeons somewhere and it is your destiny to find them. Or maybe the time of Summoning is past and your task will be of a different nature…"

"But isn't Summoning what Summoners do?"

"Yes, but a Summoner also has the power to send the dead onwards, and to the Farplane."

"Huh?" Harry had been totally confused at that one.

Yuna had chuckled gently. "The Farplane is… the Afterlife. Where you go after you die," she'd explained. "Well, where you're supposed to go at any rate. Sometimes, the dead don't want to go on… because they're not sure about the way, or more likely, because they feel they still have something to do here on this plane…"

Her expression, still wistfully turned upwards to watch the stars, had grown thoughtful, pondering, and slowly, a pensive frown had appeared on her face: "Actually, that's possibly the most powerful of a Summoner's tools… it's what I used eventually to bring about the Eternal Calm… after we – my Guardian and I – defeated him, I put Yu Yevon's spirit at rest, and that was what ensured the Calm would last, instead of perpetuating the cycle of Sin's return."

Harry's breath had caught, surprised at the revelation. She'd never mentioned her battle against Sin before, not directly.

"It was the same with the Vegnagun crisis," she'd continued, oblivious to his wide-eyed stare, "I helped Shuyin and Lenne move on… reach the Farplane..."

Harry, spellbound, had furrowed his brow in confusion. "Who are… were… Shuyin and Lenne? And how does that even work, anyway?" he had asked with a puzzled frown. "Is the Farplane a… a place? Like, an actual one?"

She'd thought a little on that. "I think I can talk Brother into taking us to the former Guadosalam. There you will see… and understand. You need to see the Farplane for yourself. After all, it is a Summoner's duty to help the dead go on, to where they belong…"

She'd trailed off, looking at the distant stars again, clearly thinking of something… or someone…

Loath as he was to redirect her attention once more, Harry couldn't stop himself from asking: "How can I do that?"

Yuna had blinked, almost startled, but then she'd smiled apologetically. "The Ritual to do it is called a Sending. I can teach you… it is a prayer that takes time, and the movements are difficult but beautiful. It gives me peace… it gives everybody peace."

Harry had nodded and they'd fallen into a companionable silence together.

Their routine – studying, training, practising, discussing – had gone on for a while and though he'd missed Sky Runner a little, Harry would have been quite content to live like that indefinitely.

About a week earlier, however, he'd woken up with a loud gasp, not from one of his recurring nightmares of the monster, in fact, he couldn't even remember what he'd been dreaming at all, but rather because he'd been suddenly filled with a sense of... urgency.

He'd needed to do something, something important!

He'd found himself outside in the chilly night air without even knowing how or when he'd got dressed and slipped out. He'd been glad to find his Rod clenched tightly in his hands, though: the familiar weight was comforting.

Soon he'd found himself mid-way up the hill behind the village, standing uncertainly in the middle of the path, feeling small and intimidated while staring up at the most impressive of the ruins scattered over Besaid.

In the light of day, the weird towering structure with its odd articulated joints and faded colours was just part of the Island's peculiar but familiar landscape. Nobody paid it any attention and even if the first time he'd caught sight of it Harry had been amazed and stricken, he'd soon learned to take it for granted, just like all the other, more discreetly arranged, ruins of the area.

Finding himself all alone under it, in the dead of night, his timid gaze raised to stare at the impressively looming construction, had made him re-evaluate its impact. Its shape had blended into the night, losing definition, but its presence had appeared somehow more real and worrisome than when it could be seen in every detail.

The complex had always reminded Harry of a giant mechanical spider laying in wait across the path, non-existent eyes focused on the incautious travellers strolling though the supporting pillars that made its 'legs'. That night, his imagination had made him hear a raspy breathing coming from its stone and metal bowels and though a part of his mind had scolded him for his silliness, pointing out that it was just the sea, unusually loud in the resounding silence but nonetheless quite natural and not at all frightening, another part of him had wanted to hide and whimper at the impression that the immense structure was moving up and down slightly, heaving slow breaths, ready and waiting...

He'd wanted to turn around and run, flee, hide, but at the same time, he had known... just _known_... that he had to get inside. Never mind that it was supposedly impossible to enter it. Never mind that he _hadn't wanted to..._

Firming his jaw stubbornly, he'd forced down the irrational fear that had been invading him. He wouldn't let it stop him. Shaking off the feeling of dread that the huge spider-like construction gave him, he'd strapped the Rod to his back with his belt and tackled the fern-covered rocks the structure was inserted in.

Climbing on the nearest leg – err... tower – had been the matter of minutes and from the top of it, balancing along a suspended bridge-like beam had been quite easy, but then Harry had been stumped.

The tall 'legs' were topped by beams arching towards a platform and that was the level he'd reached: he'd stood at the outer edge of the horizontal surface that supported a circular building whose exterior looked positively impenetrable. A complete circuit of the edifice had merely reinforced the impression. There were no doors, no openings, no holes that he could see; no panels or gears or buttons or levers or whatnot – how was he supposed to get in? Was there even a way?

Feeling disheartened and lost, he'd perched on a circular bench-like sill that leaned at an awkward angle. In the darkness, the distant sea down below was an invisible presence, its murmur only audible because of the widespread silence. The huge ruin had been a deeper blackness than the black of the starless sky and it had made Harry shiver with cold and dread where he uneasily sat in its looming shadow, darkness engulfing him from every side.

The chilly breeze, the dark, the solitude of the silently sleeping island had started to get to him. His certainty and drive had started to fade. He'd no longer been sure that he was even supposed to be there. Maybe it had been just a nightmare, maybe there was nothing to do or to find there, maybe he'd just been impressionable and gullible.

But then – just as he'd stood up with a dejected sigh - he'd slipped on the uneven surface and felt himself tumble towards the central tower. A soft cry escaping him, he'd held out a hand blindly, grasping for support. His palm had hit the smooth surface of the base of the strange building and his momentum had rubbed skin against metal involuntarily.

Surprisingly he'd felt a pattern of scratched marks on the wall, marks that unexpectedly had flared like neon-pink burns: a Glyph!

He'd stared in awe. He'd never actually seen a Glyph – not a real one at least: Yuna and even Wakka had drawn a few of the elaborately carved Summoning Glyphs they'd seen during her pilgrimage for him, so that he'd get an idea of how they looked, but this... this was so elegant in its simplicity that Harry had felt his breath hitch.

Words Yuna had mentioned only in passing, but that he'd soaked up like an eager sponge, resurfaced in his mind: "Look around yourself, Harry... you'll find that our world is full of sacred symbols and beautifully ornate mandalas... those who believed the Teachings of Yevon used them constantly... to teach, to help focus, to mark sacred spaces... but only few became true Glyphs..."

It was true: everywhere in Spira there were graceful writings used as ornaments, on buildings, on clothes, on precious items.

"These signs... because they are symbolical representations of the world and all its elements, when they are charged by spiritual energy, they can have interesting effects on the world they represent... like sending a power surge through a specific path, freezing an area, creating flames, destroying an obstacle... or activating a door or a switch... That is what we call a Glyph..."

Was this it then?

With a trembling hand, he'd traced the core symbol, finger sliding over the peach-pink fluorescent lines with great care... two vertical signs on the left, cascading gently and then curving a little outward at the bottom, accompanied by a stylized tree supporting a twinkling star on the right. All encased in a circling frame of flowery geometric patterns entwining.

He wished he knew what it meant, but it hadn't been a standard yevonite script symbol and not even Yuna had had any idea of its true meaning, when Harry had reproduced it for her, later. Though just running a light finger over the traits had evoked in Harry a sense of belonging and rest, of achieved peace. Of coming home.

When he'd gathered enough courage to firmly press his palm in the middle of the Glyph, a section of the wall had slid upwards without a sound, darkness opening onto more darkness. But Harry's fear had dulled to almost nothing.

He'd felt excited.

Yuna's voice had echoed again in his mind: "Aeons are obtained by completing the Cloister of Trials at each of Spira's temples. Or, rather… that's how it used to work." He could picture her small smile so clearly, the one she'd used when quoting: "Those who seek to learn of Yevon's secret arts are tested by the Cloister of Trials. Find the right way, and you will be taken to the Chamber of the Fayth."

Was this it? Was he going to get an Aeon? He had barely dared to hope...

He'd activated the awesome sonar function Buddy had added to his goggles and walked confidently into the darkness. As usual, he'd felt like giggling at the weird sensation it caused: it was like things sprung out of nowhere when he got close enough, with no details whatsoever but rather just outlines and impressions of volumes, in the odd evanescent colours he would see inside his eyelids after staring at a fire and then closing his eyes tightly. It was fun! And more importantly, it had allowed him to fumble his way through the circular room without many problems, all the while hoping to find another Glyph to light the way. But the area had been disappointingly empty and the walls largely smooth.

He had, at last, dropped on all four and patiently felt around the floor with his hands, attempting to get a feel for its layout by way of groping, and finally, he'd recognized the pattern of an etched, vaguely circular symbol. The Glyph this time had glowed bright green and the section of floor had sunk into descending steps.

With renewed determination, he'd started going down, absently noticing that the staircase seemed to be taking him inside one of the pillars on the outer side of the hill and that it had quickly morphed into a spiral staircase running along the walls, with a plunging cavity in the middle that he had done his very best to ignore.

At first the steps had been regularly spaced, but after a while the descending path had been ruined in places, with instances of collapsed flooring or leaning walls. Harry had had to slow down and become extremely careful, but the symbols he could feel under his hand at regular intervals going down, which blazed with neon-blue light when he pressed them, had reassured him that it was the right way.

For all his cautiousness however, he'd ended up losing his foot on a slippery half-crumbled step anyway and he'd fallen with a sharp cry, luckily not far. He'd landed in shallow water: it had barely reached his knees, but it had been freezing cold and the unexpected splash had resounded ominously in the pitch black cavity he'd realized he was trapped in.

He hadn't seen a way out, be it through an opening or by climbing: he'd been well and truly trapped.

Shivering and cursing, he'd fought the wave of panic that the cold and the dark were trying to arouse in him. The sonar was great, but it did nothing to dispel the weighty feeling of the shadows closing in on him. If only there was a spell for creating light…

The thought had stopped him short.

He'd freed his Rod from the belt it had been secured to and run his hands on it in the darkness, blindly, finding a measure of comfort in the very familiar texture. Yuna's words had been running through his mind. "An expert mage can tweak the magical energy for his own purposes…"

It had been dangerous, since he hadn't really known what he was doing, it had been rash. He had been warned many times against attempting any casting for which he could not accurately judge the need for energy and compare it with precision to his own reserves. But desperate times called for desperate measures…

Grasping his Rod tightly with both hands near the top, he'd tried a few turns of phrases in his mind, switching and mixing words to come up with an invocation that might work. He'd come to the conclusion that this had to be why most incantations were so lame, it was a pain to think one up…!

Settling on an acceptable line at last, he'd quickly, lest he thought better of it, called his magical power up, raising his Rod with barely trembling hands still clenched near its top.

"_Stars bright, pour forth your light!"_

With a suddenness that had caught him off guard, magic had rushed up through him and run like electricity along the Rod, pooling atop it and then seamlessly spilling forth, white light blazing suddenly and swiftly chasing the shadows to remote corners, so that the darkness immediately around Harry was lit with a dazzling radiance, that did not pass or dim, but remained steady and comforting, hardly draining him at all.

Awed at his success, he had been able to examine his surroundings with a calmer heart and remounting curiosity…

Too bad there hadn't been anything to see. No way out, no footholds or grips to climb back, no furniture or machina or items lying around, nothing. He'd poked and prodded the walls and splashed cautiously the water with his foot, hoping something would happen. To no avail.

He'd had no idea whether the Trial was over, whether it had been a Trial at all, what was supposed to happen after. Yuna had never mentioned what came after the Trials. He'd barely had any notion of there being a Chamber for praying at the end of it, but surely, this couldn't be it? What was he supposed to do now?

He'd stood there in the dark, the quiet sea whooshing softly all around him, the cool night breeze moving his dark bangs slightly. He'd felt lost.

Then… he'd heard a hovering sound, distant and close at the same time. A – voice? It was and it wasn't… a singing voice, or rather a humming one, full of solemnity and depth, sad and daunting and full of hope all at once, at the same time completely alien and heartbreakingly familiar.

It had moved like a breeze, rising and falling, coming and going, and had seemed to drift in a wide circle around him. He'd spun around and around, trying to turn in the direction of the wistful tune, but he could see no-one and nothing.

"Who are you?" he'd cried, "Where are you?" but all that had come back to him had been an echo which darted fitfully in the shadows.

The song had never quieted though: now fainter now louder, a sound had hovered in the air and the humming song had never been wholly silent. With a jolt, Harry had realized that he _recognized_ it: it was the tune he'd heard when he'd found the Rod, when Yuna had touched it for the first time. Granted, it was a richer, fuller version, but now that he'd caught on, unmistakably the same.

It had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, whispered by the waves, or was that Harry's heartbeat?

Carrying a question…

_What do you want?_

And Harry had hesitated, because somehow, it had felt more important than just that and he'd suddenly worried that he didn't know the answer after all.

_What…_ and the murmur of the crashing waves had counterpointed the question_ …do you truly want?_

He'd stopped, and thought, and images had risen in him… of O'aka gesturing about something or other, of Clasko smiling ruefully, of Sky Runner flapping his wings excitedly and warbling, of Rikku and Yuna and Paine and Buddy and Lulu and Vidina and Wakka… of the beach near the village of Besaid and its clear blue sea…

_Return... _

The song had intensified, and there was more joy than sadness now, though it was still solemn; and Harry had nodded thoughtfully: yes... to return home, when all was said and done... that was a good thing to wish. Right?

The whisper had changed, ruffling around him like a breeze…

And then, just like that, it had been _there._ A... presence of sorts, sliding in place into the back of his mind, so naturally that he'd taken a moment to wonder at the marvellous simplicity of it all. He hadn't known exactly how he was feeling it, or why, but he had known it was there as surely as he knew his hand was attached to his arm. And with it had come a faint warmth of comfort, support, relief.

_Summoner, I shall stand by you._

He almost hadn't known how he'd managed to run back to the others, or to make them understand the tale tumbling from his mouth with barely any coherence.

That very day, the whole Village had gathered to watch, amazed at the idea of a new Summoner being proven true at last, beyond any lingering doubt.

Harry had stood in the middle of a rough circle of people, his Rod held horizontally in front of him, more nervous than he'd ever been before. He'd glanced right and caught sight of Lady Yuna's encouraging smile. Rikku had been waving madly beside her, like a cheerleader, and Paine had gazed coolly at him, projecting confidence. He'd nodded. Okay.

He'd raised his arms slowly, in a wide arc, bringing his Rod up in front of him, raised vertically towards the sky. He could almost feel everybody holding their breath. Including himself.

Slowly, he'd lowered his Rod, gathering his energy – magic, faith, whatever you wanted to call it. At the edge of his vision, he'd seen small evanescent bubbles of energy with a green tinge starting to form and it had been all he could do not to grin. It was working! The bubbles had coalesced all around him like small comets with their wakes merging into a single trailed circle around his waist.

He'd taken a deep breath, his nervousness dissolving, and moved, determinedly, performing the step and wave of his Rod needed to call forth the entity that the mysterious energy had somehow linked to him: in his mind, he was shouting pleadingly 'I need you!'

Light had shot up from the circle like a translucent foam and converged to form a bright star atop his head, bright and luminous against the unexpected dark clouds that seemed to have appeared only over the circle he had created.

Harry'd smiled, certain that the star was an embodiment of his invocation. He'd felt nothing but joy when, from the rapidly spinning vortex of clouds, something dark had formed and fallen fast towards him, his shape growing more definite with every instant: a great winged creature, golden fur and purple feathers glowing softly as it soared, screeching, and then glided down to him.

The large lion-like creature had remained hovering over him, its great wings flapping calmly and its eagle head scrutinizing him. Harry had looked up serenely, not even remotely afraid, but a little awed at the magnificence of the Aeon.

For a long instant, they had gazed calmly at each other, measuring one another up, strengthening their connection. Then the great Aeon had glided closer and landed lightly and Harry had stepped forth, smiling, and raised a hand to stroke the creature's bowed head gently.

The Aeon had warbled happily and than stood on its hind legs, looming protectively, sharp onyx eyes glaring at the gaping watchers. Not spotting any immediate threat among the people admiring it in stunned awe, it had crouched down low beside its Summoner. Its gigantic wings had folded elegantly against its body and it had awaited orders, its tail lashing impatiently behind it.

Harry had been lost in joyful wonder. The Aeon had been simply magnificent and the sense of connection he could feel, like a warm flickering flame in his heart, had made him feel elated. He'd never seen anything like the wondrous creature in his life. Sure, it was a little scary, but still, he could feel a strange kind of gentleness coming from it.

Instinctively, he'd petted it gently while thanking it in mid-voice for answering his call. The Aeon had purred under his ministration, turning and nudging Harry's hand, asking for more. The green-eyed boy had grinned and run his hands over its neck a few times before gently releasing the connection between them.

The Aeon had flown away and disappeared into nothingness, leaving a clear sky once more, but Harry could feel its presence still, like a warm laugh at the back of his mind.

Awed whispers and cheers had burst out from every spectator, Rikku's the loudest, and Yuna had come up to him with a big smile: "The fayth has entrusted you with a new Aeon!" she'd said ritualistically, bowing gracefully in the gesture of the prayer.

Harry had bowed back, feeling serene.

And now, barely a week after becoming a full-fledged Summoner, here he was, contemplating the path that he could see stretching before him and into his future.

He was no longer scrawny and no longer miserable, nor lonely: he had a family now, even if an unconventional one, and friends. He had a fulfilling and exciting life, people he cared about.

Most importantly, he had a place of his own in the world: he was no longer a freak, an oddity. He had an explanation for why he was different and far from making him 'wrong', it made him liked and respected. He had found his place, his reason for living.

He was happy.

It had been the best idea imaginable, to take a chance with the 'magic'.

And now, he was about to take a chance once more.

He looked critically over the invisible window that had unexpectedly appeared in front of him: a perfect copy of the one that had brought him to Spira over three years earlier. This too opened on a wooded area, though instead of a magical night time, the lush green forest beyond was bathed in warmth and sunlight…

For a long moment, he hesitated.

He didn't want to lose all he'd gained here on Spira. He was happy here and he had people to love and who loved him. Why would he leave?

He hadn't yet met the famous Benzo, nor seen the mysterious Mt. Gagazet. He hadn't had a chance to try his hand at blitzball, or learn how the Towers that served as lightning rods in the Thunder Plains were recalibrated.

But his Rod was humming loudly, passing him the strong conviction that he was needed elsewhere.

It wasn't such an outlandish concept. One thing he had learned from O'aka was that leaving friends behind was something that happened all the time, and it was sad, but also not, as it meant that the possibility of meeting new ones opened up; and anyway, one could almost always go back after a while, just like he did regularly with Sky Runner and Clasko. The important thing was not to forget. Never forget...

_Make new friends and keep the old, _

_one is silver, the other's gold…_

The little lively verse danced in his mind while he wrote to his odd 'family' on a piece of bark. There wasn't much to say.

_Take care_. A wish.

_I will come back._ A promise.

_I love you._ A truth.

Magic existed and had taken him away, given him a better life, where he was useful and wanted. Magic had granted him the powers of a Summoner... It was only fair that he followed Magic's lead wherever it took him. Until such a time when he would return.

If he could return at all...

A moment of self-doubt almost stopped him, but then words that Nooj had spoken once upon a time in Luca's Stadium flittered through his mind: _No one knows just where our voyage will lead us. But we do know one thing: one way or another, we will get by. We'll go on living._

And something Lulu had told him followed: _No matter how long the night, morning always comes, and the journey begins anew. _

His night had been long and wonderful, full of happy dreams. Now it was morning… now it was time for his journey to 'begin anew'.


	6. Musings of a Dark Lord

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**_  
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Musings of a Dark Lord

Voldemort sat back in his elegant armchair before the fire and indulged in a moment of satisfied relax.

Four years ago, when Magic had granted him a second chance, to use a common-place phrase of which time had long ago destroyed all ingenuity, he had been greedy for power and desperate enough to grab it in whatever form, but nevertheless wary of the web of worlds suddenly connected, no matter the immediate advantages to himself.

Who knows what could have been in them! What dangers… he almost couldn't admit even to himself that he had feared the possibility of a rival to his own power…

He needn't have worried.

The new worlds hadn't been a source of enemies – far from it!

They had put within his reach resources beyond his wildest dreams!

Of course, it hadn't been all a bowl of cherries. The first world he'd reached… he still shuddered in remembrance. Useless place. And irritating to no end.

He hadn't liked anything there, from the overabundance of bright colours to the strange religion. In his not-so-humble opinion, religion had no sense, no use and no possibility of being exploited in any way. In short, it was a dreadful waste. He'd never been able to stand any form of it.

Magic was almost non-existent in that world, well-known, sure, but very weak; muggles milled everywhere and they were so _pathetically_ happy. Apparently a 'great evil' had been defeated less than a few years previous and everybody was still celebrating.

He had divided his time there between cursing the foolish, weak, pathetic lot of them and feeling almost ill at the saccharine good-will oozing from almost every place.

It hadn't looked like a very big world anyway, or like it held any valuable resources, and there were certainly very few people there. None of them of use. He still felt like sneering at their stupidity and blindness, especially when he thought about their _faith._ Bah!

Insult added to injury, it was no use possessing the people there, either. Muggles were little better than rats and lasted about that long, with the added disadvantage that most were missed when they turned up mysteriously dead. No, that was not the place for him.

Thankfully he had remained very little there.

He'd found another window of passage in a matter of days and that one had led him to the most amazing place – and the most amazing ally.

He relaxed comfortably against the burgundy headrest, lazily swirling the wine in the graceful glass he held, and examined his brand new, young body once more. He didn't think he would get bored of admiring it any time soon. Lithe muscles, a handsome face, straight hair and penetrating black eyes; graceful yet imposing.

Oh, that Orochimaru bloke had been a godsend, truly! So similar to himself… yes, they had a lot in common, not least their love of snakes – the sign of a superior mind.

In fact, their goals and desires were so similar that he had had almost no difficulties manipulating the chakra-user to his own advantage. Almost no challenge, really. For all of the other's intelligence, experience, talent and cunning, he'd been no match for his greatness. He might have been disappointed in that, if it hadn't been so convenient.

Of course, he'd had to give up the secret of the Horcruxes, in the end, which was annoying, but could he really expect any less by such a worthy opponent? Life was all about compromise after all and he couldn't realistically expect the other snake lord to disclose _his_ secrets for nothing. He wouldn't be a worthy ally if he did.

The Horcrux ritual was bound to catch Orochimaru's interest and more than adequate payment for any knowledge. Though he had to admit… the Soul Transfer technique was unbelievably useful! He knew all too well what kind of power a handsome face held over the lesser… and now, he could change his looks with barely any hassle, remaining forever young as well as immortal… not to mention, it eliminated the risk of another incident like those years ago with the Potter brat.

He scowled… never again would he be reduced to ghost and vapour!

Oh, yes. Orochimaru was an invaluable ally.

A bit whiny perhaps when things didn't go his way, but he made up for it with the sheer usefulness of the fear his reputation struck into most of that world's population, and even more, with his amazing web of contacts. He had sunk his fangs into anything of importance – revolutionary groups and criminal organizations and the major players in the politics and trade between the various nations all at once. And where his fame was considered infamy instead, he had well-placed spies, surprisingly loyal to the extreme.

Voldemort could use that is so many ways he might actually not have enough time for all!

Naturally, it had been a slow, tricky work getting the other to trust him; but on the other hand, it was time well spent as he'd learned quite a lot about the new world's strange magic.

Chakra, what a laugh. Something anyone could learn with a bit of training… bleah. The Arts of Illusion were an amazing weapon though – nobody knew better than him the power of deception. And the convenience of not needing a wand for some truly destructive power was neat.

He was still mildly impressed at how easily everything had fallen into place to his advantage, however.

He suspected that, had he accidentally stumbled on one of the so-called Five Great Nations right from the start, before he'd had a chance to understand the dynamics of this world and what to be wary of, he might well have ended up worse than he'd started off – which was saying a lot, considering he'd been reduced to a mere wraith starving for power.

As luck would have it, though, he'd come to this world in the faraway, isolated and utterly naïve Village Hidden Among the Stars, in the Land of Bears, one of the lesser-known shinobi villages in that universe.

Shinobi, apparently, was their word for wizards, though it didn't translate perfectly. Voldemort had harboured the hope, for a while, that the name of the place was mistranslated too, but after a few years in that world, he rather despaired of their naming skills. But anyway.

Information gathered from the locals had suggested that the village's leader was 'the Star Shadow', however it hadn't taken long for Voldemort to figure out that he title didn't carry much real power - unsurprisingly. The rest of that world didn't seem to acknowledge the Village Hidden Among the Stars; not that they could be blamed, considering that the bunch of peasants didn't show to have any worthy skills, resources, or even proper cunning and ambition.

Apparently, their only possible claim to glory was the strange meteorite, the 'Star', in their words, which had struck the location a couple centuries earlier. While the effect of this celestial rock on the plant-life had been nothing short than devastating, the weird energy it emitted had been cleverly harnessed by a smart mind into a technique that allowed the inhabitants of the Village to achieve supernatural chakra levels. A technique called... the Mysterious Peacock Method.

Seriously. What was wrong with these people? How could they hope to exact any kind of respect and wariness if they kept using names with 'Stars' in them rather than 'Death', and _peacocks_, of all things, instead of snakes?

They clearly didn't have a clue about making a way for themselves in the world.

But that suited Voldemort just fine, as he had ended up nearly salivating when he's seen the 'Star' proudly displayed on top of an eagle's claw pedestal located at the very centre of the training ground where the technique had, once upon a time, been taught.

Feeling the power simply oozing from it had made him instantly believe the tall tales about chakra-users who had mastered the ridiculously named technique to the point of being able to solidify their chakra as a shield or create wings for flight... If that last had been more than a mere exaggerated legend, Voldemort would have confessed himself seriously impressed. There was no magic in his knowledge that allowed a wizard to fly unaided by artefacts, after all.

Unfortunately, the training was no longer applied. The 'Star's' intense radiation of chakra was, it seemed, too much for common shinobi to handle: if exposed to it repeatedly, their insides began to corrupt and their organs to weaken, eventually leading to internal bleeding or organ failure.

And so, naturally, it had been forbidden.

The stupidity and blindness of short-sighted leaders! Oh, how he hated it!

So what if the method had a high death toll? You couldn't obtain anything without sacrifice; and if only the strongest would survive it... well... it was the way of the world, to get rid of the weak.

This Third Star Shadow, this pathetically wimpy leader haughtily portraying himself as 'wise and charitable', had reminded him so much of the old coot that had styled himself the Light Lord to oppose him.

Dumbledore had always been weak, weak and blind. Trying to spare the poor little innocent fools, forever coddling the sheep eating out of his palm, and turning a blind eye to the fact that by keeping them tied up with nonsense about 'Good and Evil' he was doing them no favours.

This old fool of a leader had been the same – too scared to pay the price for true power and justifying his cowardice with talks of 'the Good of his People'.

It mattered not, however.

There were more than enough proud and persistent fools in that village for him to get his goal.

And one, particular youngster – a mere boy, still, that Akahoshi, with all the pride and egocentricism and reckless ambition of teenagers everywhere – had been so very susceptible to his manipulations that persuading him to assassinate the old Star Shadow had been a child's play. Of course, as soon as that idiot – ruthlessly driven as he was – had become the substitute Star Shadow, he'd reinstated the training, nicely granting Voldemort the chance to get close to the meteorite.

And swallow his power as if it was cool water for his thirsty soul.

He'd kept an ear on the uproar in the village, while he'd gone about consolidating a temporary form for himself, mainly for amusement value: many had been all too eager to ignore the rumoured effects of the radiation, spurred by that Akahoshi's grandiose promises of forcing the other villages to accept and recognize their value.

Later on, when the high death toll had shoved the fools' faces into the reality of demanding prices, Voldemort had heard word that they had unanimously denounced Akahoshi as unscrupulous and mad with power, and rejected the practice of 'Star training'.

He could only shrug. That Akahoshi was an idiot – useful, sure, but that was it. Despite his willingness to endanger the village children in the quest for power and ruthlessly commit murder when needed, he'd showed a maniacal side that Voldemort only appreciated from the low-level grunts, where fanatical loyalty was needed to avoid any unpleasant protests against being sent to slaughter for their master.

No, Voldemort wasn't surprised that the fool had been unable to maintain the power he had gained for him.

By then, anyway, he had been far from that stupid remote village and well ensconced in the rising power of the Elemental Nations: the Village Hidden by Sound. Orochimaru's own den.

Looking back, he could easily say that the time in that world had been among the most interesting and challenging periods of his life.

Certainly, he'd never been bored in that world – not with that snake lord hissing and coiling his own traps around him, even as Voldemort worked to ensnare _him._

Such an exhilarating feeling it was, to match power and wit with someone worthy!

The triumphant smugness of winning the many-layered game of deception and circumventing, wooing the adversary to your point of view even as you plot their demise, lulling them into a sense of superiority even as you manipulate them to your advantage – that always gave him a thrill only the deepest Dark Spells could hope to equal.

And now Voldemort held the other's Horcrux in trust - beautiful sword by the way, what was its name again? Kusanagi? - and could hold it over Orochimaru's head to insure his… cooperation… or dispose of it should his invaluable ally become less valuable after all, or too bothersome.

He ran a lazy hand down the ornate scabbard resting against the side of his armchair, the blue gems on its long handle gleaming darkly in the electric lights.

Beautiful, beautiful sword... it earned instant wariness and respect even from those unable to recognize him for the incredibly powerful wizard he was. Its simple presence at his waist was enough to mark him as someone possessing both strength and wealth and this kind of impression was one of the keys to success: presenting a front of power and splendour meant to intimidate and attract at the same time.

It was how he'd made his way in the elitist circles of the pureblood aristocrats of his world, back in his youth.

Him, a supposedly muggleborn nobody with no wealth nor connections, but with enough power and cunning to support all his ambitions and rise above all the haughty hypocritical nobles of wizardry: he had ensnared the snobbish elite and woven them tightly around his little finger before they'd even realized it.

He had chosen his targets carefully. The fashion-setters, those who would take many others with them, wherever they went; the rich idiots who had the means and influence to support him without the brains to use those resources for themselves; the easily manipulated hypocrites who called themselves traditionalists, and yet wished to break the established order, greedy for privileges they felt they were due...

He had won them over with a cultivated image of brilliancy and magnificence and subtly showed off his power in many little ways to those who came to him attracted by his shining... until they'd been too ensnared in his control to break free and too fearful of his skills to challenge him.

It had, at first, been just an illusion, admittedly, but as time had gone by, he had started building his image into something much more concrete – devouring knowledge his charismatic charm seduced out of their family grimoires, accumulating actual riches from more or less coerced donations, putting the high and mighty purebloods into his debt, until condescending tolerance had turned into reluctant acceptance, then wary admiration, nervous if greedy backing, and at last, fearful obedience.

That was the path he was now walking once more, on a much bigger scale than ever before, and the sword was just one of the many steps needed. It implied his power in a discreet but unmistakable way and made it so that he would not waste time being tested by easily intimidated weaklings, nor having to go look for covetous followers himself: they would be attracted by the show of power he was putting on – and warily cautious, so that by the time they might grow bold enough to question his actual might, he would be long ready to crush any opposition.

Not to mention, it was wickedly delightful to see Orochimaru twitch every time he twirled it carelessly in front of him, reminding him that Voldemort held a piece of him in his hands.

Oh, it had been a trade of course. The snake lord was good: no way would he relinquish part of his soul without getting something equally precious in exchange; so now Orochimaru wore Slytherin's locket.

That rankled, but... it was how it was done. Mutual insurance and all that.

Hah! What a laugh!

Voldemort knew how to play that game much better than that. He had been _very_ careful to imply that the process could not be done more than once. So Orochimaru had no idea about Voldemort's other fail-safes. If it came to that, the locket could be sacrificed…

But in the meanwhile, Voldemort was rather happy to know his precious piece of soul was safe. Who would think to destroy such a clearly valuable artefact after all? Unless they knew the truth? Especially in a world of thieves!

This had been the point that had convinced Orochimaru of the advisability of the exchange, too, and it was perfectly logical: each Horcrux would be safe – safer than anywhere else, probably - and at the same time be a guarantee of its maker's good faith.

Officially, at least.

Satisfying didn't even cover it!

His visit to this third world, a place he was currently exploring with care, was proving almost equally good, if a trifle disconcerting.

He glanced distractedly out of the window of the hotel room he was staying in and sneered. Deling City was a horrid place, in his opinion. Reminded him too much of his muggle upbringing. It was too bad that, according to what he'd soon found out, this awful city was the capital of the greatest and most influential country in this world.

He could understand the need to sink his teeth firmly into the most powerful government on this world – doubly so, since it had the best army, and better still, expansionist designs. Yes, it was the place to rule, the key to the rest of the world.

But it didn't make the utterly kitsch and utterly _muggle_ place any less disgusting to his much more refined taste.

At least the hotel was high class.

Truthfully, he didn't even particularly want dominion of this unsettling world. To think, a world where the highest levels of magic were restricted to women! Inconceivable! Really, he was almost offended.

Still, this Edea Sorceress had been very receptive of his ideas – though he suspected that his new good looks had had a part in that. She was rather silly and definitely crazy too. She was beautiful, mesmerizingly so, but he'd seen enough possession cases to recognize the symptoms… and whoever – or whatever – had taken her over was rather insane as well.

He'd worked his charm to seduce her cooperation nevertheless. He didn't yet know enough about this world to dismiss it; besides, her being so receptive to his... suggestions... was too convenient to pass up.

He didn't put much stock in her plan and goals however. Back in his youth, he had researched the nature of time and found it too fickle to allow for any mastery. Still, you never know where and when an insane fool might have a brilliant breakthrough, walking on fields where sane people would never tread…

So if she wanted to try, more power to her.

In any case, she made a perfect safety case for Ravenclaw's diadem; much better than Hogwarts, where there was always the chance that moronic ghost would confess to the Headmaster.

It had been tricky to retrieve it: first he'd had to find a passageway to the right world – luckily he'd long ago studied a few rituals to temporarily grant himself a heightened sensibility to certain kinds of magic, so it hadn't been much of a stretch to adapt them to his latest purpose – then it had been a matter of infiltrating the old fool's domain without alerting him – amazing how useful a group of highly trained shinobi could be in such an endeavour, good thing he had them at his beck and call – and finally he'd decided that he should really make the most of it all and start sowing the seeds for his return, ferreting out accurate information about who had and hadn't stayed true to him, quietly arranging a few tentative contacts, making all of his loyal followers aware, in their dreary little prison cells or in their cosy grandiose mansions, that he wasn't gone forever and they'd better be ready - Lucius Malfoy at the very least should be able to prepare the ground for his triumphal return...

No, it hadn't been easy, but it had most definitely been worth it.

Edea had gushed over how lovely the jewelled headdress was and put it on immediately. And wonder of wonders! Her mind was almost ridiculously open. He hadn't expected that, not after how well-protected Orochimaru's mind had proved – pity, that – but not only had he been able to plant a Compulsion Charm never to get rid of the diadem in her mind, there was also a distinct possibility his soul fragment would take control of the Sorceress.

It was almost too perfect!

She had also reciprocated with a very interesting gift, one that he was well aware was supposed to entice him into becoming her 'Knight': some sort of cross between a servant and a suitor, who was supposed to bond with the Sorceress and remain at her side faithfully, to serve and protect her.

The idea he would subject himself to such an ignominy was so ludicrous he couldn't even consider it without scoffing. He'd been suitably gracious in accepting it, and extremely careful never to imply even in the remotest of ways that he might be interested in her offer.

He examined the ring closely: a thick band of silver engraved with the silhouette of a lizard-like monster with finely etched bat wings twisting along its sides. It sat elegantly on his middle finger, even better than his old Gaunt heirloom had, back before it had become too valuable to show off.

Guardian Force, she had called it.

By using its true name – Bahamut, like the legendary demon believed to be the King of Dragons – to 'evoke' it, supposedly its power would be unleashed. The way he understood it, the ring worked along the name itself as a condensed Invocation Ritual that would unleash a demon-like thing on the ring-bearer's enemies. She had promised an explosion of powers with no rivals and if it delivered, the ring was priceless.

The only downside was the necessity of 'junctioning' it – that is to say, create a link directly to his mind and magic. She had warned him of the chance of memory loss. He wasn't surprised: power always came at a price. He was rather hoping Occlumency could protect him, however, and at any rate, the procedure to junction the Guardian Force – and more importantly, to disconnect it – was rather simple and could be done in a hurry, making this a good back-up plan.

Or, he could always force one of his minions to test it, properly disguising the experiment as 'a great honour for service rendered' or some such rot. That's what minions are for, after all!

And there was still another world to explore… so many possibilities…

He sank a little more comfortably in the plushy armchair, sipping the delicious wine – a rare, pricey shipment from somewhere called Centra, apparently. He'd missed these kind of luxury.

A little while longer – just enough to see Edea properly positioned as Ambassador of Galbadia, she should be able to handle her coup and become the next President on her own afterwards – and he could leave this place… and discover what else was in store for him in the next world.

And how to use it to his advantage.

Then... then he would finally go back to his own home-world – necessarily the best by that very reason – and to the place that was rightfully his: the absolute top.

It was in his nature, after all.

From a very young age he'd known that he was different, special. Destined to greatness. His adolescence in the noble House of Slytherin had honed his uncannily clever mind to excellency and taught him to cunningly make use of everything within its reach.

Dominance was his destiny.

Of course, he had to be careful... rash haste would not serve him now. Once already he had thought that he had very nearly achieved his every dream, had believed that he had had everything, _everything_, in his grasp, only to be thwarted at the hands of a foolish girl with no sense of self-preservation, and her unbelievably lucky brat.

He'd been such a fool. He knew, _knew_, what kind of destructive force the oh-so-hailed 'love' was. It broke you, destroyed you, weakened your senses until you threw away your life uselessly with a smile. He'd been very careful to avoid it – but he should never have forgotten that others were all too prone to falling for it.

And so he'd lost everything...

He had been so self-assured. Arrogant, some would say. But he had known that his carefully hoarded knowledge had few rivals, that his fully unleashed power would make all but perhaps one tremble and quake, that he had spun the messy web of politics and money and favours and baseless pride the wizarding world consisted of to his utmost advantage. He had made people believe in him and bow to his whim. He had brought the world to spin along his will, and his alone. He had been on top.

Of course, there had been those who opposed him… it was inevitable. He was a visionary. His goal was a better future for wizards and witches, an uncontaminated world shaped according to his splendid vision.

The wizarding world had _needed _reforming. There were too many festering problems to even list. It was necessary to purify it, to return it to the only viable way of life, with the truly powerful benevolently ruling the weaklings.

He knew, knew intimately, that he was the only one able to lead such a world. If they could only see… but of course, most hadn't. People were blinded by the minutiae, the regrettable but ultimately unavoidable sacrifices. No revolution happens without death and destruction. How could he build his wonderful new world without doing away with the wasteful remnants of the old, wrong one?

Why could those fools not see that he, and he alone, was right?

So what if in order to fix those problems he was forced to use a heavy hand?

He had been accused of selfishness… lies!

His quest for domination and, yes... immortality, was motivated by nothing short than his desire to improve the world that belonged to him.

He could still hear the echo of the damn old coot's words: "There is no true goal in your actions, Tom, be it laudable or despicable. There's just fear and death and pointless torture!"

Wrong, wrong, how wrong he was! He was blind… blind!

That nonsensical accusation that the Dark Arts had twisted him... Dumbledore had made that his most annoying refrain, shouting it from every rooftop to scare the weak-minded. It was a remark that never failed to offend him, even just in memory.

The Dark Arts... there was almost nothing better. The idiocy of thinking they were dangerously addictive was nothing more than a save-face for those too weak to seek the greatness they offered. The Dark Arts opened ways; they could not change their wielder. They did not crawl inside your head and scramble your brains as every light-aligned fool no doubt believed. The opportunities they offered might affect the judgement, perhaps, but by the same coin, they could also strengthen the resolve!

No, neither the use of the Dark Arts nor his decade as little less than a spirit had corroded his sanity.

He wasn't mad.

Had never been mad.

Those years as mere shadow had taught him patience, though.

Yes, he had patience. Patience to once again cultivate his Dark Lord persona slowly, thoroughly. Patience to scheme, and plot, and arrange the world and the foolish pawns that populated it to his benefit. Patience to foolproof his plans, and make sure everything happened exactly the way he wanted.

He couldn't risk the same mistakes again.

He wondered… what would he find when he went back to his birth-world? Would his instructions have been followed satisfactorily? Would everything he needed to implement his plans be ready? It better be... There would be people to punish, of course, treasons to avenge… but for now, it could all wait. He wouldn't waste this chance.

So far, everything was going his way and wasn't that a wonderful feeling?

He was so busy, he rarely had the time, now, to wonder about the surge of magic that had opened up so many possibilities for him.

But it was never very far from his mind. Where had it come from? What had provoked it? Could it be repeated? Recreated? It didn't matter of course, but he'd always had a scholar's curiosity.

More pressing was the question of whether someone else had taken advantage of it.

He'd kept his eyes open, just in case… but so far he'd seen no trace of anyone else travelling through worlds. Of course, he'd been carefully discreet himself, so it might not mean much… but no, it took a wizard of exceptional power to even perceive something like that, much less use it… that meant Dumbledore.

But the old fool would never dare. Pathetic moron. For all his impressive power, he'd never had the courage to act… he bemoaned the wrongs of their world but never lifted a finger to right them.

And he had the guts to blame _him_ for doing what was necessary! Sure he'd killed some… sacrifices were unavoidable! But the old man was too much of a coward… too conservative to understand the beauty of the revolution he would bring to the wizarding world.

No, he did not fear Dumbledore's meddling so far from the cosy prison he'd made for himself in Hogwarts.

As for the boy… the boy prophesied to take him down… but no, no.

The more he thought about that dreadful mischance, the more he was convinced that the brat was a fluke. Not worth worrying over.

It had been the mother's sacrifice and the amazingly strong shield it had erected that had – _temporarily_ – defeated him. He'd been careless, that was all.

If only he'd never gone… but how could he have imagined the silly girl would resort to such powerful Old Magic?

It was no use crying over spilt milk however and anyway, the consequences of that damn night had almost completely been overcome.

There might be some residue from the powerful spell on the brat, it was always a possibility with Old Magic, especially if tied to the blood, but there were ways to counter it; as for the Prophecy that had pushed him into that reckless action, the existence of such a prediction did not necessarily mean the boy had anything special about him and even if he did, there were ways to sidestep the always unclear wordings of any foretelling.

He'd thought he could simply squash the threat, but he should have remembered that cheating Fate was never that easy. He would be better prepared to neutralize the danger, when the time came to confront it again.

He wouldn't make the same mistakes again…

* * *

_A/N:__ Bit of a change of perspective... after all, Harry's not the only one who's taken advantage of the worlds collision! Let me know what you think about the new POV, please! Next chapter I'll probably peak into Dumbledore's mind... Luna_


	7. A Long Awaited Visit

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**

A Long-awaited Visit

Albus Dumbledore felt as giddy as a schoolboy.

A Summoner was coming to Hogwarts!

Pride and excitement filled the aged Headmaster of the best School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on Earth and made it so that it was an effort for him not to bounce around the beloved stone corridors like a zippy child.

A Summoner! At Hogwarts!

When he'd received the politely worded letter requesting permission for a Lord Summoner and his entourage to visit the legendary castle, he couldn't believe his luck.

Summoners were rare, revered beings.

They were practitioners of a most ancient, sacred art, sworn to protect the people from uncommon magical threats. Only a chosen few ever became Summoners, for the title was not given to any magic users, no matter how powerful, skilled or well-trained, unless they manifested the rare talent of calling to their aid the mighty, mysterious beings known as Aeons, entities of greater power than ordinary magical creatures can hope to wield.

They were the blessing of Magic itself to its practitioners, according to the old lore. A living, breathing legend...

Common knowledge about them was sadly scarce.

Proverbs and old wives' tales, children's stories and myths that saw Lords or Ladies Summoners as protagonists were typical and loved and, unfortunately, often unverified, the source of exaggerated and untrue details. Just a few salient points were shared by all and every tale: the Aeons, the initial trial that proved the fledging Summoner's status and gained them the title, and the pilgrimage that by general consensus each Summoner was to undertake to earn the Aeons' allegiance and develop their strength in body and mind.

Albus assumed that this Lord Summoner had chosen Hogwarts as one of the stops on his pilgrimage and he was delighted with pride for his beloved school. He was also very determined to be as prepared as humanly possible for this auspicious event.

He had done a lesson to the whole school himself, ensuring that every student knew what a rare, unprecedented honour this was, as well as how they should behave. He wouldn't risk offending such an important guest and he refused to let the children in his care be superficial about the amazing opportunity they were being gifted with.

They were lucky indeed!

Such an event was far rarer than even the Occultation of Uranus by Neptune...

Besides all the noble reasons for his giddiness, however, there were some rather more down-to-earth ones. Mainly, the fact that Albus could not help hoping, if only in a quieted corner of his heart, that the Summoner might be coming to deal with Voldemort. Or at least might be persuaded to help...

Admittedly it was unlikely. Summoners did not deal with standard magic, and no matter how horrifying Tom Riddle's actions might become, nothing thought of and acted upon by man was likely to require the attention of a true Summoner.

No, it was the most violent and uncontrolled phenomena of wild magic that called for the intervention of a Summoner, or at the most, their direct effects – such as the birth of magical monsters or the spreading of epidemic infections. Disaster events, causing thousands of deaths. Nothing less.

It was a Lord Summoner who had faced the onslaught of unnatural earthquakes that had riddled the Yucatan peninsula in the times of the Cocom Kings, provoking avalanches of snow and, in the planes, of mud, that could not be stopped by any means, magical or not.

It was a Lady Summoner who had gained control of the wild waters flooding central China during the Ming Dynasty and turned their devastating, destructive force into a source of healing and revivifying for the land.

Wild magic cyclones... unexpected mutations of common creatures into ferocious or overpowered versions... limnic eruptions suffocating wildlife, livestock and humans... sudden climate changes such as entire regions freezing overnight into ice-covered wastelands... those were the kind of things a Summoner usually dealt with.

And it had been the birth of a Summoner who had, at long last, defeated the horrid Black Plague, back in the times when muggles and magicals alike died by the millions...

His mentor, Nicholas Flamel, had recalled meeting the man, and spoken to Albus in such awed and grateful tones, even after centuries had passed since the Lord Summoner's sacrifice had produced the cure, that the old Headmaster had no doubt the meeting they were preparing for would be a most extraordinary experience.

He was determined to make everything go well.

He went around in person, trying to ensure that the castle looked its best to welcome the amazing guest.

Portraits were scrubbed, despite their subjects' loud and sometimes foul protests, suit of armours were polished to the point of gleaming, out-of-sight corners were scrubbed clean more thoroughly than ever in the last century; staff and students were growing increasingly excited and, at the same time, awfully tense; rooms were being prepared for their guest and whatever entourage would be coming with him; the House-elves were working themselves into a state over cleansing and cooking arrangements; the Great Hall and all the major places in the castle – the Library, the Quidditch Pitch, even the Hospital Wing – were being decorated lavishly.

Everybody who fancied themselves of importance in the wizarding world, from Minister Fudge to the nephew of School Governor Bowetts, were clamouring to be invited to Hogwarts at the right time, to meet the Lord Summoner; the press was already laying siege to the school, waiting for the once-in-a-lifetime event to actually take place.

It was the talk of the country, unsurprisingly. Everybody was curious, everybody was interested, and everybody was excited.

General morale would benefit greatly from the event, undoubtedly, and Albus would not pretend, not even with himself, that he didn't have high expectations on this visit.

They badly needed a boost to their spirit. Things had been bleak the past few years.

And while the full blame could not possibly be laid at any man's feet, Albus knew he had his fair share of responsibility for the returning darkness that had been creeping back into their world with increasing alarmingly greed.

Merely thinking of the series of mistakes he'd made – with the best of intentions, perhaps, but still with horrifying results – was enough to seep all of his confidence from him, weakening his spirit and making him feel tired and brittle and oh, so old. The weight of guilt was hard to bear.

Harry Potter's disappearance… he could admit, now, that he'd made a sad error in leaving the child with his mother's muggle family - and probably doomed them all in the process, considering the ill-fated prophecy that concerned him and Voldemort.

But how was he to imagine?

When dear Arabella had flooed him rather frantically about the child's disappearance, he'd felt his heart stop. All sorts of dark scenarios about kidnapping and capture by Death Eaters sympathizers had flashed through his mind. Especially when no tracking charm had worked – at all.

He'd been prepared to force a brave face to cope with and comfort the distress he'd expected from the worried family... he'd been completely taken aback by the callous indifference and malicious glee he'd been met with – the nonchalance with which they rejoiced in being free of the 'freakish burden', the spitefulness and malignity, and the heart-stopping realization of just how hard the child's years in that house must have been. The cupboard under the stairs, that still bore an innocent, childish drawing as silent testimony of Albus' tremendous miscalculation, had been the last straw.

He had spent the following months fretting and worrying. What could have happened to the precious child? Where might he be? In what condition would he arrive at Hogwarts?

Because, for all his worry, he'd never, not for one minute, doubted that Harry Potter would show up with his peers, as was only natural. He'd never even considered that the child would _stay_ missing!

He'd been ready to do as much damage control as was needed, to fix what could be fixed and make amends to the best of his abilities. Not for a moment had he thought that he would never get a chance.

He'd had such high hopes.

He had hoped that Harry Potter would have joined Hogwarts as a rather normal, unprejudiced child, not spoilt by the lavish sycophancy of the wizarding world. He had hoped that Harry would have been curious and quite outgoing, that he would have been placed in Gryffindor and that it would have been easy to subtly influence and help him through a series of character-building challenges designed to guide him towards his fated destiny.

Instead...

Instead, his heart could only ache at the mere thought of the lost child-hero, which was invariably followed by rows and rows of familiar young faces flashing through his mind – the children his mistake had doomed to an age of war and, ultimately, darkness.

Although he would never give up and never stop working to the fullest extent of his ability to stall the rising shadows, for several years now he'd felt like he was fighting a losing battle.

As he had feared ever since that fateful Halloween night, Voldemort – far from being permanently vanquished – had at last returned. Of that, Albus had no doubt: the rumours had started spreading almost three years ago and the signs of the feared Dark Lord slowly but surely regaining power and influence had been piling up more and more as time went by.

The slow, steady takeover was not altogether very different from the early stages of the previous war: so far, the battlefield was mainly political, with several pardoned Death Eaters manoeuvring themselves into key positions in the Ministry, in the Hogwarts Board of Governors, in many essential financial venues, even in St. Mungo's.

Whatever crime was committed – and there were, if one knew to look – was kept under wraps or confined to the muggle world, out of view of the wizarding populace, while the regrouped Death Eaters went about their goals discreetly but unhindered – despite their general policy of 'gain through _any_ means'.

Unfortunately, the combination of heavy bribes and intimidation tactics they were employing was extremely effective and all but impossible to truly counter.

Albus alone, it seemed, was reading the message these manoeuvring were spelling out: the Dark Lord was definitely on the move. Most others, even those whose intellect and integrity he'd come to respect over the years, like Amelia Bones, despite aware of the increasing activity from the Dark side of their society, were for the time being blind to the more frightening implications of such a shift in the general views and political lines.

Albus felt powerless to stop the spreading darkness, mainly because he was but one man, and an ageing one at that. The Light side had no charismatic figure to stand by his side and take on at least one of the fields of battle. No-one who could inspire the respect and loyalty a leader truly needs. There was only him, and he, quite frankly, could simply not do enough.

By far the worst element of these gloomy times, however, were the rumours of Voldemort using Alchemy.

_Alchemy!_

Albus knew it couldn't be true. His friend and teacher, Nicholas Flamel, and he, himself, were the only Alchemists left. Thank Merlin! As wondrous and powerfully versatile as Alchemy was, it was simply too dangerous to let it spread. The potential for misuse was greater than for any other form of magic.

Alchemy... the Greatest Art, the mystical science of manipulating and altering matter by using natural energy, the most noble and most sought after of the magical crafts...

As a young man, Albus had been arrogantly proud of being one of the remarkable individuals capable of studying and practising it. Alchemy didn't just involve a full understanding of complicated theories, of which chemistry, hermeticism, medicine and philosophy were merely pale reflections, but also a sort of natural talent towards recognizing and manipulating physical objects through the energies of the world. It required uncommon levels of intelligence and aptitude and for this, his apprenticeship under the great Alchemist Flamel had appeared to him as the highest coronation of his ambitions.

He was gifted, he was brilliant, and what better way to shine than to become an Alchemist?

Far better than his foolish time with Gellert, at any rate...

But as every mentor must do, Nicholas had opened his eyes to more than the paths by which Alchemists can transmute the various substances of the world: and Albus had eventually realized just how dark and sinister Alchemy can be.

The alpha and omega of every Alchemist's philosophy _should_ have been the tenet of Equivalent Exchange – the one law that transcends all others – and because of that, the art _should _have been self-limiting, since there are things, like lives and souls for instance, whose value is, simply put, incalculable, incomparable, impossible to weight in an exchange; yet, weather out of despair, malice or inquisitive hubris, innumerable Alchemists had, over the centuries, attempted to push the boundaries of that basic law above and beyond, and paid a hefty price; nor was it any use hoping that the vetoes discovered through countless mistakes and their horrific consequences would be heeded by all.

Albus himself knew all too well the powerful temptation lying in the idea of human transmutation – the undeniable, inescapable wish to bring deceased loved ones back to life – and had been unable to rid himself of it completely, even after all these years, despite managing to resist the temptation of actually attempting it.

The fact that such pursuits had always been failures in history did not make the idea any less tantalizing; and so, many an Alchemist had fallen and stooped to playing god, breaking the flow of the universe itself through forbidden endeavours, and many more innocent people had ended up paying the price of the devastating rebounds.

Thus it had become common practice in the last couple centuries, mainly due to Nicholas Flamel and his intelligent wife, to further screen potential Alchemists on ethical basis, and soon only lone, half-crazed Alchemists had trodden the paths of human transmutations – and they were usually quickly stopped, so that for several decades their world had not seen any of the worst excesses that, say, Greece had faced in the wake of the Telchines' experiments on chimeras, or the Byzantine sea fire...

Albus had no doubt that Voldemort did not – never had, never would – pass the requisites of ethical integrity to become a true apprentice of the Greatest Magical Art. He would not stop before any taboo, not even the greatest of all, the forbidden manipulation of human souls. The extraction of souls, or parts of, from human bodies and the alchemical binding of said souls to inanimate objects was something that had caught his eye all the way back to his teenage years, if Albus' discreet research into Voldemort's past was to be believed. The old Headmaster felt cold shivers down his back every time he lingered on the idea.

Nor was that all. Already there was talk of his using homunculi... alchemically created humans, or at least, humanoid creatures. Albus did not believe that Voldemort had truly found out how to create and control such constructs. The knowledge had been deliberately lost over time, because of the unacceptable price it required and because of the unethical implications of a process that amounted to building a human.

On the other hand, there was always the possibility that one solitary Alchemist might have survived the purge, passed on his knowledge in secret, or even survived as Nicholas had... and the fact that Voldemort was claiming to have homunculi under his control was worrisome even if false. Reports might have been sparse and obviously exaggerated, but were nevertheless disquieting. And if it weren't just rumours... the possibility of a rogue Alchemist serving Voldemort, or, Merlin forbid, _teaching_ him, was frightening.

Albus wished he'd had a chance to examine the supposed homunculi himself, but the Dark Lord seemed very careful in keeping them out of his reach. That was, perhaps, a good sign, as it might well indicate that they were fakes and Voldemort knew Albus would identify them as such with ease.

But what if...

Ah, well. There was little he could do, no matter his wishes. At least now they had something awe-inspiring to look forward to!

A Summoner...! The thought was enough to return a smile to his aged face.

The letter that had arrived, disclosing the existence of a living legend and politely requesting permission for said legend to visit Hogwarts, was quite possibly the best thing that had happened to him in years.

A Summoner was coming to Hogwarts!

Even his much loved tart sweets seemed tastier these days!

While doing his rounds in the school, Albus found himself oftentimes chuckling good-naturedly at the palpable excitement coming from his dear students. No matter where in Hogwarts he went, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation: the approaching visit of a true Summoner.

Rumours were, naturally, flying from student to student, as they were wont to do: how would he look like, what would he like, would he be young or old, arrogant or friendly, single or taken – ah, teenagers! - would he stay at Hogwarts long, would he show them some cool magic, would he come alone or not... and of course, most of all, everybody wondered _who_ the Summoner might be.

Albus was rather sure he could only be a stranger. The power of a Summoner... it would have been impossible to hide; had he been born in Europe, his appearance would not have been so sudden nor, certainly, unexpected, at least not to him.

No, he had to be a foreigner; an Asian, most likely.

Far East communities were both vast and secretive. It was no stretch of the imagination to think that the Lord Summoner might have been raised and trained in some hidden location and had only revealed himself to the world at large when it was time for his pilgrimage.

A pilgrimage that, Albus thought with satisfaction, was taking him to Hogwarts: thus marking the school as one of the most important magical places in the world – a world that would most likely be watching every minute of the visit; which was the reason why he, as Headmaster, was going to make sure they would make a lasting and most of all positive impression for the occasion.

Unfortunately, nobody knew the details of the sacred journey this Summoner was likely on; however some elements were common to so many accounts that Albus felt confident they could be trusted and used to plan the visit to perfection.

First of all, the innumerable variations on the concept of a 'Cloister of Trials' marking every stop of the pilgrimage.

Those who sought to learn the secrets of the Aeons, said the legend, were tested by it – a sort of maze, Albus guessed, because the Summoner had to 'find the right way'. Some records even claimed that the Cloisters were the Aeons' lairs or dens.

He wasn't sure what to make of it.

There was nothing of the sort in Hogwarts: he would never dream of assuming he knew all of the school's secrets, but surely something of that magnitude couldn't have remained hidden for ages, could it?

Many legends and rumours also contained an element of sacrifice to the pilgrimage's end – Summoners offering their lives to protect the world. It was probably one of the reasons why they were always revered – everywhere, under every sun – and often even worshipped.

They were the embodiment of Protectors of the Greater Good he had, in his youth, aspired to being himself. And not only was one alive in their time... but he was coming to Hogwarts!

Hopefully, anyway, the sacrificial component of a Summoner's job would not come into play during his stay. That would likely become a public relation nightmares.

Last but not least, every account mentioned the presence of Guardians.

By general consensus, a Guardian was a warrior tasked with protecting the Summoner during their pilgrimage. A Summoner could have just one or many. They lived and travelled with the Summoner they were protecting and were the only ones allowed to accompany a Summoner at any time, in any place. Nobody could bar the way to a Guardian protecting their Summoner – and if they did, woe to them.

Guardians were held to a very high standard and strict code of conduct. They always had considerable fighting skills but they never used them just for personal gain. Rather, they were true servants of the Greater Good, like Albus himself had always striven to be, albeit in different fields than bodyguarding and fights.

Many spurious stories also claimed they were bound to uphold the ideals of righteousness and honour, others that they were required to go to any length to repay a debt or a favour received, or that they would always seek vengeance against a villain, never to be stopped by man or law...

They were all a bunch of nonsense in Albus' opinions.

A Guardian's one and only duty was to their Summoner. There might be a hierarchy among them but they submitted to no higher authority except the Lord or Lady Summoner they freely served. They recognized no other leader, accepted no other rule, and concerned themselves with no other goal than to protect their charge. Of that, he had almost substantial proof: there was a frail tome in the Magical Library of Melk titled _The Code of the Guardian. _Albus had never had a chance to read it, but the one page that was shown in many reproductions, a beautifully illuminated sheet of parchment, offered the command: _Protect the Summoner, even at the cost of one's life._

He wondered how many would accompany this particular Summoner, and how they would all compare to the tales of their legend.

Something told him that if they did, they might well end up striking the students' fancy more than the Summoner himself...

The night of the planned arrival, the excitement reached its peak.

The buzz of students' excited chatter was like a pleasant vibration everywhere, charging the air with their barely contained enthusiasm. Everything seemed to sparkle with expectations and delight.

Albus felt the wards shift as Minerva welcomed the awaited visitors and led them in and he raised to his feet, hushing the Hall to eager whispers tapering off to feverishly expectant silence.

All eyes in the Great Hall were fixed on the doors as they opened with a low rumble, letting four people walk in and down the carpeted path that had been prepared between the long House tables, Professor McGonagall quite overlooked in their wake.

Three of them – the Guardians, everybody guessed – stood in formation around the fourth, who was hidden from view by an elegant, cerulean cloak.

The tallest Guardian in front immediately caught the students' eyes, because of his confident gait and sexy, cocky smirk, but more than that, because he was carrying a sword. An _awesome_ sword, long and deadly, with what Albus was reasonably sure was a pistol serving as the hilt for the blade, adding to its impressive appearance.

He wore a long, light grey coat, with a peculiar emblem on the sleeves, over a blue vest and dark pants, as well as black gloves and what only the muggleborns recognized as military boots. Something silvery shone around his neck.

He held his square chin high, boldly displaying the scar that ran from his forehead and across his nose, and walked in such a way as to convey even at a distance an impression of strength, but also stubbornness and perhaps recklessness. His demeanour certainly didn't show anything remotely resembling caution, and even less fear. His blue-green eyes were alight with excitement and arrogance as he took in the floating candles, the curious students, life in general.

Leading the way, he strode confidently and smirked at everybody in a way that had many a girl sighing dreamily over his muscled form and bright blond hair.

Following him, slightly to the Summoner's left, was a fairly tall, lean teenager who wore a long cloak, the collar high to hide the lower half of his face. It was clothes the wizards were more accustomed to and they immediately assumed he was a spell-caster like them, if foreigner. He had an Asian look to him anyway.

He glided – for he didn't seem to be walking – barely a step away from the Summoner and his countenance couldn't be more different from the blond's. Unlike the sword-wielding Guardian, he didn't project an aura of physical strength and energy ready to lash out. In fact, every movement was careful and tightly controlled, as if he was conserving his energy. And all the more frightening for this.

Despite his straight long hair, as black as a raven's wing, and the lithe elegance of his body and movements, he wasn't attractive: on the contrary, the shiver running down many students' bodies had him declared creepy almost on sight.

Perhaps it was his pallor, that prompted many a hurried whisper of 'Vampire!' More likely, it was the empty look in his dull black eyes, that didn't seem to see what he looked at. Some of the whispers reaching Albus even speculated that he was blind.

Bringing up the rear was the oldest of the group, a tall man in his late twenties, with a dark complexion and a muscular build. His hair was, shockingly enough, pure white and shaved close on the back and sides, leaving a fluffy crown on top.

He was wearing black slacks with a white cross on the left leg and a white stripe running down the right and a rather distinctive sleeveless gold-coloured jacket emblazoned with a cross on the back.

People were hard pressed to decide whether they were more unnerved by the impressive X-shaped scar, which stretched across his forehead and down over his eyes into his upper cheekbones, or the complex, mysterious symbols tattooed all over his left arm, from the thin mark of a scar stretching entirely around the limb where the biceps met the shoulder and all the way down to the wrist. The black ink seemed to pulse.

It was the red eyes that topped it all, though, and even drew some scared whimpers from the less rational students. Surprisingly, that made the unnerving young Asian's lips curl into a cruel mocking smirk.

The white-haired Guardian held himself in a kind of relaxed tension that showed him ready to face any threat and his eyes darted around the hall not in wonder, but registering the details, assessing the threats, seeking the exit routes. His serious, impassive expression stated clearly that an enemy would only reach the Summoner in bloody pieces, even if it cost him his life.

Of the Summoner himself they couldn't see much at first.

The four walked calmly up to the space before the High Table, where the Guardians spread out, not needing words to share the tasks of keeping an eye on the students (the cocky swordsman), the teachers (the eldest one) and the rest of the environment (the creepy one, whose eyes unexpectedly lit with a red glow, circles crossing circles in place of pupils, to the general fear and dismay of everybody).

Albus had to admire their discipline and the dedication that kept them alert and tense even in a situation unlikely to present any threats. They said nothing however and let their Summoner take a couple more steps and meet the Headmaster.

Albus Dumbledore, blue eyes twinkling madly and the orange whirlpools on his purple robes twirling, stepped up to initiate the moves of the ancient salute.

His voice almost shook with emotion: "Welcome, my Lord Summoner, to Hogwarts!"

Cheers went up from every corner of the Great Hall. The stars reflected in the ceiling seemed to shine brighter than ever…


	8. So Much More

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**

So Much More

Itachi padded the darkened rooms in the quiet of the night, as silent as a wraith, his presence no more noticeable than that of a gust of wind.

His chakra-enhanced eyes, black dots swirling in a sea of red, took in every shadow, checked every silhouette, pierced the dark to categorize every possible danger.

It was his job to ensure his Lord Summoner's safety and he took it seriously.

That was the duty of a good shinobi and he would have performed it flawlessly with any pompous dignitary or fat wealthy merchant who'd hired the services of his Village... but with Harry, it meant so much more.

So much more...

Ninja were assassins, thieves, spies. They didn't have things like 'honour' and 'nobility'. They did, however, have a Duty. To their Leader, first and foremost; to their team-mates, and Village, then. And to the client, while the mission lasted.

Harry however had always been more than all that, more than just a client, more than a 'duty', more, even, than the revered Third Fire Shadow, the leader he had served before, had ever been to Itachi.

And it had been so right from the start, even though Itachi hadn't recognized this truth at first.

Unbidden, his thoughts flew back to when they'd met. The longest night of his life just behind him, and the most dreaded day just begun, and then that surprising encounter...

Out of habit, he tried to shut the memories down, lessons of old taking over: never let emotions cloud your judgement, never let personal angst invalidate a mission, never lose focus in the labyrinth of remembering.

But he was honest enough, at least with himself, to be forced to acknowledge that they were safe in these odd rooms of a most intriguing building and besides, he trusted his fellow Guardians to do their share: he couldn't hide behind his duty to avoid the past as usual.

So he took a deep breath and let the memories come...

He had been but a boy then, not very much more than a child in body, though his spirit had long been forced into adulthood. And he had been running with everything he had – running for his life, despite not truly believing in his right to survive. Not after what he'd done.

But his mind shied away from the haunting memories of his crime, now after so many years exactly as it had back then, and Itachi focused on what had come next instead. The strangest meeting in his experience.

As he'd swung lightly from tree branch to tree branch, every inch of his body taut with the tension of flight, he hadn't truly believed that he would get away. He was the best, a member of the Special Assassination and Tactical Squad, top of the elite even among shinobi; but those who were hunting him were his companions and they weren't any less good than him.

Moreover, his heart had been heavy with guilt and sorrow at the loss of everything he held dear; his mind had been full of his village – the village he was leaving even if he wanted nothing more than to stay, the village that would forever think him a crazy traitor and never know how much he'd sacrificed for its safety – and of his little brother – the brother he loved so much, who would grow up hating him ferociously.

He couldn't concentrate properly on his escape. Deep down, he hadn't thought he deserved to get away. And thus, the hunters had been gaining on him.

Suddenly, he had registered a presence on the ground a bit further on, that had seemed to appear out of nowhere – which was simply impossible.

Anything living had a chakra signature and it couldn't be muted or fabricated without consequences, without recognizable effects. Effects that hadn't been there.

One moment nothing, the next it was there. Absurd.

Considering his status of hated missing-nin and the fact that he wasn't yet far enough from the Village Hidden in the Leaves, he couldn't afford to consider the presence anything other than an enemy; especially since whoever it was had seemed to have an incredibly vast, if wild and untrained, chakra capacity. To his Sharingan, it had looked like a lit beacon.

And too sudden to be real.

Intrigued and wary at the same time, he'd dropped to the ground without a sound and disappeared in his surroundings, years of training allowing him to investigate with no risk of being noticed.

He just had to be cautious, for his pursuers were bound to pick up on the chakra concentration as well, and likely react the same way.

Quickly and silently he'd got closer.

The source of the chakra signature had turned out to be a boy about Itachi's age, though it was obvious at first glance that despite his potential he had to be a civilian: the way he held himself and the curiosity without wariness with which he looked around had been dead giveaways. Not to mention the beautiful, but quite eye-catching, intense blue of his clothes.

Itachi had arrived at the strange boy's back and at first he could only see a mass of unruly black hair.

To his great surprise, the stranger had seemed to notice him immediately, despite all his training and the care he'd been putting in staying invisible: he'd turned around sharply and stared through odd-looking goggles directly at where Itachi was hiding, making the shinobi re-evaluate his possible training. But then, maybe it had just been chance because he'd looked surprised when Itachi had stepped out. It had been frustratingly confusing!

As had been the strange weapon he'd held – which Itachi hadn't been sure was a weapon at all, but hadn't known how else to classify.

He still didn't know nowadays, even if he'd long grown familiar with the slender staff that looked like a bō, but a very short one, about half the stranger's height, and made of some sort of metal rather than wood, primarily bronze-coloured, but with a spiralling design that made it change with the light in an almost hypnotic manner.

Back then he had only been able to estimate that it had looked like a combat staff and yet not at the same time and that he could have sworn it was chakra-infused, yet it hadn't felt like a charged weapon.

In short, it had been beautiful, foreign, and confusing.

Exactly like the boy who'd been holding it.

Itachi hadn't known whether he should feel threatened or not and reluctantly, he'd raised his gaze to meet the other's eyes, despite the long-standing habit ingrained in his Clan of avoiding eye-contact outside of the heat of battle.

And something had happened then, no-one could have expected.

The newly-declared missing-nin had found himself mesmerized by the brightest pair of green eyes he'd ever seen; not that he'd seen many, he had to admit.

But these had been special.

They had shone through those thick, very technological looking pair of intriguing goggles that gave the boy a mysterious look and all the way to Itachi's very soul.

They still did, whenever Harry studied him with his peculiar, soul-searching gaze. They weren't just luminous. They shone with warmth and determination and hidden power.

The shinobi's breath had caught: even from a distance, the boy's charisma had been beckoning.

It hadn't been attraction, of that Itachi was sure: nothing so silly as a sudden infatuation. He might never have felt such a thing himself, but he had had far too many occasions to observe the phenomenon of 'crushes' in loathed fan-girls as well as in most of his slightly older colleagues. He had also been warned of the natural changes in body chemistry that puberty would bring upon him and how they would increase his susceptibility to such uncontrolled reactions. He had even tried to prepare himself for it and had studied carefully both written accounts and real-life examples.

What he'd felt that day for what amounted to a perfect stranger had nothing to do with hormones and the perception of an appealing form.

It had been... magical, except of course nothing of the sort existed. The Mystical Ninja Arts were techniques, they might look like magic to civilians, but they were perfectly explainable, perfectly teachable, perfectly scientific.

This was not.

Almost without realizing it, Itachi had stepped further out of his hiding place and toward the other boy, forgetting his situation and the hunters on his trail, focused only on those green orbs. Something in the stranger had called to him at such a deep level that even instinct was closer to consciousness than that.

Even after years, Itachi was at a loss to explain it.

There was no denying, though, that the bond between them was real – and deep – and precious to Itachi. Maybe it was because in his entire life, Harry had been the first person to truly welcome him – _him_, not what he represented.

As soon as the boy had caught sight of Itachi, he'd smiled: a wide grin, full of welcome and hope and just a little bit of pleased surprise. There had been no sizing him up, no instantly classifying him under pre-determined labels with their burdens of responsibilities and duties, no covetous tally of all the ways the precocious child-genius could be of use. He had been smiling like someone who has been waiting for a dear friend and has just seen them arrive.

Itachi had felt something inside himself snap into place: relief and peace had spread and settled into his soul, filling him with a joy that was echoed by the mystical tune the forest all around them seemed to hum.

He'd frowned at his own thoughts then: forests do not hum tunes, mystical or not. He'd sighed, suddenly realizing that it had to be an Illusion. A clever one, preying on his innermost thoughts and desire, and powerful too, because... he'd felt… complete.

But his almost automatic response of an Illusion Release, performed with resignation but nevertheless flawlessly, had not shattered any false sensory perception. An instant later, Itachi had been shocked by the realization that, if it truly was an Illusion, then it was fooling his Sharingan, that, as usual, had reflexively activated in response to his surprise. Which was impossible.

So he had been forced to conclude that either he was being lured into a sophisticated trap by someone of unbelievable power... or else, it was real. This feeling that, beyond any doubt, his place in the world was right beside that strange boy, a feeling that was giving him a stronger sense of belonging than even swearing himself to his Leader had given him, that was filling him with the immeasurable relief of a much needed peace... was real.

Accepting that had left not the slightest doubt in his mind: the boy was Home.

Sounds of his pursuers had intruded in the serenity of the moment.

The stranger had been the first to break the growingly uncomfortable silence: "Are they hunting you?"

Itachi had started, abruptly reminded of his quandary. His gaze had darted here and there, on the verge of panic – how could he have let himself so open! But the other boy had hastened to reassure him: "Don't worry. I can hide you effectively. They'll lose your trail and be forced to give up."

He had spoken with confidence, but Itachi had stared at him dubiously. The boy – a child, really, by Itachi's standard – couldn't know what he was talking about and...

The green-eyed stranger had smiled again and with a flourish he'd produced a bangle, made of a silvery metal Itachi could not identify for sure. It had looked pretty, but Itachi could guess of no real use for it, especially in their situation; that is, until the boy had wrapped it around his wrist.

And disappeared.

Not only had he no longer been visible, not even to his Sharingan, but his very chakra signature had completely vanished. There hadn't even been the void usually associated with someone suppressing their presence: the chakra patterns of the forest hadn't been disturbed in the least, it had been as if the boy simply wasn't there anymore.

Only he had been: a moment later he had taken off the silvery ornament and his presence had flared up again where it hadn't been an instant before.

This was ten times better than any Illusion he'd ever heard of!

When the green-eyed boy had raised the bangle in invitation, he hadn't hesitated and had held out his arm in one fluid motion. Apparently the ornament could be twisted and reshaped, as the stranger had quickly managed to wrap it around both their wrists.

And for all intents and purposes, they had disappeared from the quiet clearing.

Itachi hadn't known what he'd been expecting, but the sensations had caught him off-guard nonetheless. It was, he'd reflected, like watching the world through a transparent, liquid veil. A rather disconcerting experience, especially when he'd remembered that others could not see or even sense them.

His new companion had seemed unruffled by the situation. "Traded this from Uncle O'aka some time ago. It lets the wearer go around undisturbed by fiends and such... Cool, huh?" He'd said in a barely-audible murmur, and had shot Itachi a grin that had disconcerted him, so unused he was to easy camaraderie after years in the Special Assassination and Tactical Squad, adding quietly: "By the way, my name is Harry!"

Weird. Most weird.

"I am Itachi," he'd shot back, just as quietly. No use in giving a surname. The clan was dead anyway, and it's not like they were anything to be proud of. He wasn't going to use the name Uchiha ever again, if he could help it.

Harry had nodded in acceptance, then stilled and turned his attention to the hunter-nins who had just dropped all around them, looking around in angered confusion.

"Where are they? They can't have disappeared!" had shouted an angry voice. Itachi had recognized his former partner Wolf and stifled a wince. He had to have been taking his 'treason' as a personal offence, knowing him.

"They must be hiding somewhere around here." This had been the voice of a dismissive, almost bored male.

"We would feel their chakra if they were!" had retorted a sensible sounding female. Itachi guessed it had been Sparrow: he had worked with her and knew her for a level-headed kunoichi whose knowledge of Illusionary Techniques was unparalleled outside of Clan specialities.

"Unless they were masking it." Wolf again, bitter.

"Impossible. Masking one's chakra is a gradual process." Sparrow's lecturing tone had given Itachi a pang of bittersweet familiarity. "If they were hiding, we would have felt their chakra signature slowly fading. It is impossible to make it completely disappear abruptly, not without leaving a hole in the chakra background that is as telling as a presence."

"Except that there is no such hole," had pointed out a voice Itachi had instantly recognized as Sharingan no Kakashi, "and they did disappear. Abruptly and effectively."

"I don't…" had started Sparrow, but a deep voice Itachi hadn't known had interrupted: "Transportation jutsu."

There had been a silence.

Then Kakashi and Wolf had started swearing at the same time.

"He must have had an accomplice, then," had commented the bored voice.

"The chakra surge earlier!" The disgust was prominent in Wolf's voice .

"No sense in continuing," had sighed Sparrow. "They could be anywhere by now."

One by one, the hunter-nins had turned towards Konoha, giving up the chase. At least for the moment.

Itachi had stared after them, unable to believe he was off the hook. Relief, grief, a turmoil of powerful, sad emotions had choked him, an ache growing in his chest at losing his former companions, at leaving his home for which he'd sacrificed so much… overwhelming sorrow and lingering disappointment for the choices and consequent fate of his Clan... a sliver of hope for his brother… the terrible doubt that maybe, he hadn't done the right thing for Sasuke, despite his best intentions…

A rustling sound beside him had caught his attention. Harry had been rummaging in his backpack. Then he had turned to Itachi, beaming brightly: "What are you going to do now?" he had asked.

Itachi had regarded him impassibly, all his attention focused to figure out what the true scope of the question might be, but the other boy had radiated genuineness. He really had just wanted to know – not to use it against Itachi or to his own advantage, but just... well, Itachi hadn't been able to tell why, but he'd felt relatively sure that there wasn't a hidden meaning in anything Harry had been saying. Maybe it was a civilian thing.

"I... have no idea," he'd answered carefully, a little unsettled at being so honest to anyone – let alone a virtual stranger. But the feeling of comfort and belonging was still strong in him and if it was a technique of some sort, he hadn't been able to believe that Harry was doing it on purpose.

"Oh, well, wanna come with me?"

There had been too much innocence and delight in those eyes. And maybe those were the qualities that had pushed him to accept the candid offer.

"Where?" he'd asked, more out of the need to say something than of any true interest.

"Don't know," Harry had grinned behind his goggles, "except that it's that way."

He'd pointed his weapon that maybe wasn't a weapon straight to the north and the illusionary hum that had quieted somewhat, though never fully vanished, had intensified, making him beam.

Itachi had frowned a little, his genius mind rapidly forming and discarding hypothesis and coming to the conclusion that the Illusion was tied to the odd weapon – and that Harry was apparently using it as a guide.

The boy had stared at him expectantly.

Well... it's not like he'd had any true plans for after... well. He hadn't expected to get away, for one. Maybe keep an eye on Tobi, but...

But.

The Village Hidden in the Leaves had demanded so much of him. It was his duty as shinobi of the Leaf, of course... but still, it had taken and taken and taken and left him with nothing but despair and then it had asked for more.

A surge of irrational anger had swept through him.

It was his duty... but he was no longer a shinobi of the Leaf, was he?

As a missing-nin, he was free to offer his loyalty – dubious as it was – to whomever he pleased.

He'd bowed formally to the strange boy who had saved him: "If you will have me, I shall be honoured to guard you in your quest."

Harry had seemed caught off-guard, but only for a moment. Then he'd quickly grown serious and twirled his weird weapon, bringing it to his side and tucking it in his armpit like an expert bo wielder, and had returned the formal greeting with a strange, graceful movement, bringing his hands in front of his chest with a circular gesture and positioning them as if he were holding a sphere before bowing.

"Thank you, Itachi. You are most welcome to come!"

Lost in the darkness of the quiet night in a strange world, Itachi closed his eyes relaxedly, remembering that moment – the moment that changed his life so radically... and for the better.

In that one simple sentence, Harry had offered him more than just something to do with his time and skills. He had given him a purpose, a place; _belonging._

Day after day, over the last few years, he had felt the bond of loyalty and affection between him and his Lord Summoner growing stronger. Not once had he regretted it. He was sure he never would.

'Home is where the heart is', goes the old saying.

For a long time, Itachi's heart had been in Sasuke's hands, but he had been forced to make the harshest decision in order to ensure that his little brother would grow strong enough to face the dangers lurking ahead in his future... and after that, he knew, his heart could no longer remain with the child he was forcing to grow up, as Sasuke was bound to hate him.

He'd tried to offer his heart to the Village Hidden in the Leaves… but that had ended as it had ended.

Now, however… now his heart was with Harry – his liege, his captain, his brother. And he was always home.

With a small sigh, he turned his thoughts to more productive musings than recollections. They were about to face another daring challenge that would hopefully grant Harry another Aeon. It would be the third one for Itachi...

Quiet steps approached him unhurriedly.

Startled out of his thoughts, Itachi tensed fractionally before he recognized his Lord Summoner's powerful presence.

"What's wrong?" asked Harry very softly.

Itachi glanced at his barely visible silhouette out of the corner of his eyes, once more amazed at the other teen's insight.

Itachi knew his blank face gave nothing away – he'd been trained for that by harsh taskmasters – yet Harry could always read him no matter what.

And always knew just what to tell him to help.

Itachi felt his affection for his companion swell every time it happened.

"I was thinking of the Cloister of Trials we shall have to face soon," he murmured in a monotone, "and that led me to remember the first we ever faced."

He did not need to see to guess Harry's familiar, small grin: "Yeah… it was quite the adventure, hm?"

Itachi noticed the faint brush of Harry's very peculiar energy stretch slightly towards the presences that were always there at the very edge of Itachi's perception, just a hairbreadth too far to be reached.

It was a small caressing touch, not quite Summoning but sort of waving hello. A flicker of sharp wind curled around them, carrying a hint or rain, a hint of moist soil, a hint of fumes…

The Elemental Aeon was quite temperamental – they never knew how it would manifest. Sometimes it was ice or fire or lightning or whatever. Sometimes it was a bit of everything.

Itachi turned his gaze upon the silent night before them, his mind flying to when Harry had gained it…

It had taken them nearly two months, since they'd been travelling at civilian speed, through most of Fire Country, then Rice Field Country, then a fortnight by sea to the Land of Snow.

As Itachi had suspected, the Rod acted as a guide for the other boy and, according to Harry, it would lead him to find a helpful entity of some sort. What he needed it for hadn't been clear in Itachi's mind, but he had long been used to not know or understand fully the reasons behind his missions.

To know the whys and wherefores was the Village Leader's job… and now, Harry's.

Whatever the boy chose to do with his life, Itachi would follow him and protect him. He had had no doubt that he could keep Harry safe, no matter what was thrown at them. Nothing else had mattered in the least.

It had made Itachi feel strangely calmer, renouncing control like this, concentrating only on the job. It had helped numb the pain of having lost everything.

Harry had also been a joy to be around, to Itachi's great surprise. The shinobi had figured out quickly that his new companion didn't know much about survival and next to nothing about fighting, even if he was clearly used to travelling and extremely resourceful in combining things that could be found or traded along the way to achieve new and often surprising results. It had made Itachi protective and solicitous but it had also made him feel useful and valued, especially since Harry hadn't _expected_ anything from him. It had been Itachi's own choice – for the first time in far too long.

He had taken care of everything with impeccable skill and matter-of-fact ease; he had both been surprised and warmed by Harry's gratitude for what Itachi had seen as simply part of his duties. He had also been gratified by the other boy's slight awe. It was good to be appreciated, even if only as a tool, as he had believed himself to be; it's not like he'd ever been anything other than a honed instrument, to the Hokage, to his clan even, but they had just taken it for granted. Harry's happiness in him had been a balm for his soul.

What he had not understood – it had not even crossed his mind, so alien a concept it was to him – was that Harry didn't consider him a tool or a weapon, however useful, but more… a friend.

Back then, he could not even imagine that the boy he'd vowed to serve could possibly care for him.

They had stuck to merchant roads and the smaller civilian villages, in order to avoid trouble as much as possible; Harry had turned out to be surprisingly good at haggling and had displayed an almost uncanny ability to trade stuff Itachi wouldn't have possibly considered useful only to trade it again in the next village or so. It had made getting rid of his far too distinctive ninja clothes easier than Itachi had feared and guaranteed that they never wanted for food or what they needed for their night camps.

"Uncle O'aka taught me," he had told Itachi with a happy grin. "He's a Trader – O'aka XIII, Merchant Extraordinaire!"

As always, he'd been excited to talk about his friends and family and past adventures. Itachi had envied him a bit, but it had been a pleasant way to pass the time, listening to Harry's never-ending chatters about places he's never even heard of before.

Itachi had also been amused by the way Harry cherished the little odd details of his outfit and relished telling him about how he'd happened upon one or the other. From time to time he had even added a new one – always after a particularly meaningful encounter or memorable stop: he continued doing it to this very day. As if he was tying to his clothes mementos of his path in life. It was oddly endearing.

For his part, Itachi hadn't had much that he could, or would, share about himself or his past. Most of it was either classified, or too painful. Harry hadn't seemed to mind, thankfully, and while he'd never refrained from asking questions, he had always respected Itachi's choice of not answering. After a while, the ninja had grown less uncomfortable with his companion's easy manners.

Harry's odd bangle, whatever the Seal powering it, had been amazingly helpful. They could pass unobserved in any wild environment. And in villages, well, Itachi wasn't a Master of the Arts of Illusion for anything.

Harry had loved 'transforming'. He had giggled wildly every time – still did, as a matter of fact, though they did it rarely these days.

Itachi had found he didn't mind. On the contrary, he had surprised himself by choosing different disguises every time and going for shock value, even if it had been more dangerous because it attracted attention and didn't allow to create a trail to confirm their fake identities, just so that Harry could have fun. Had he remembered how to do it, he knew he would have smiled often at the other boy's enthusiasm.

Eventually they'd reached… wherever it was that they'd been headed to.

The Land of Snow had been new territory for Itachi. He had read everything his old Village had managed to collect about it, but it hadn't been much, all in all. About the only information of importance had been that their shinobi wore special chakra-laden armours that made them virtually immune to most chakra-based techniques. As he had been determined to avoid any confrontation and steer clear of its Hidden Village as well as any patrols, that hadn't been of much use.

They had moved from settlement to settlement at leisure, easily pretending to be travelling merchants: Harry's experience with the role had been very useful and Itachi had always been a quick study, and well-trained in infiltration and impersonation.

The unusually advanced level of technology everywhere had rather caught him off guard. He had seen things such as railroads and power generators before, but they were generally rare in the Elemental Nations. He had also been surprised at the familiarity Harry had showed with snow mobiles and hovercrafts, guns and cannons, elevators and even airships – though he had tended to call them all 'machina', a term nobody had seemed to have ever heard.

Trading around this and that until they'd managed to rent a snow mobile had certainly made the last few miles much easier, anyway. Itachi would have been terribly worried had they been forced to trudge through the deep snow of a chilly, hostile land on their own power alone. He would have managed, of course, but Harry had no training and even if the boy never complained, that hadn't made Itachi feel any better.

The other boy's excitement, too, had not been too hopeful a sign in his eyes. His Rod, apparently, was claiming they were close. Itachi had been careful not to voice his scepticism. That an item could be powered by a Seal so that it acted as a compass towards a peculiar chakra signature, he could accept. But a form of sentience? Was that actually possible?

But Harry had already done the impossible a couple times, hadn't he? Maybe he could give him the benefit of doubt…

Besides, he'd seen weirder things, and anyway, Harry was his client, in a way.

For all his scepticism, anyway, he'd been too well-trained not to notice how the humming vibration emanating from the Rod had steadily increased and too intelligent to dismiss evidence, however odd, out of prejudice. It just might be possible that it was all true.

The hum had climaxed into a song the moment they had stepped into a half-hidden cave. A mysterious, pervasive tune, daunting and moving. One that in later years Itachi had become extremely familiar with, yet it always had the power to touch something deep inside him.

It had soon waned to a barely audible background hum, but hadn't disappear the whole time they'd been there. It had given the atmosphere a sort of sacred feeling, like in a Monk Temple.

Itachi had been highly tense but had hid it as usual, holding himself ready for anything.

Harry had warned him, in a roundabout way, about the fact that they would have to overcome a sort of maze. That made sense, but it had also worried him. Still, if that was what Harry wanted, that was what Itachi would do.

They had made their way down the cave and elaborate, refined ornaments had started appearing, mostly centred around the symbols of the five Elements and their combinations, as the area divided into several interconnected passageways.

Complex patterns of coloured tiles had covered the walls of the corridors, forming mosaics dedicated to what Itachi could easily identify as elemental attacks. Sculptures of odd-looking creatures with wings and claws had loomed over every stone archway.

Harry had been awed, eyes huge in wonder. "I know I'm supposed to face a Cloister of Trials to earn the right to Summon the Aeon," he had said determinedly, "but my first one was nothing as impressive as this!"

Itachi had winced at that, but kept silent.

It had not taken long before their path had been blocked by the first 'Trial', a puzzle of sorts, requiring them to reconstruct a particularly complex pattern by moving around sliding tiles over a wall. Fortunately, it hadn't been difficult: Itachi was a genius after all and his Sharingan guaranteed he would remember the configurations effortlessly. Harry's quiet and sincere admiration, so devoid of any adulation, disconcerted him.

The completed design had lit up under Harry's hand. A Glyph, the boy had called it – a kind of Seal Itachi had never heard of before. It had vanished the wall supporting it, to the ninja's surprise.

Shortly after, they'd encountered another, similar puzzle, then another again. The theme linking the various challenges had helped: the whole maze seemed centred around the five Elements, so it had been easy for Itachi to select the right route, simply by avoiding the passageways dedicated to elements whose Glyph they had already passed.

Eventually they'd found themselves in a vast, dim area, where a series of glowing spheres had been lying about and an etched design covered the floor, with holes the size of the spheres in key points of it.

Harry had quickly figured out that they had to match the colour to the symbol, once again based on the elements. Whenever they put a right sphere in the right hole, lines of energy alighted on the floor, making the biggest Glyph so far take form on the floor of the cave.

Itachi had hesitated before activating the last connecting line. All his instincts had been screaming at him to expect something bad upon completion of the figure.

Harry unfortunately didn't have such honed instincts. He had happily pushed the last sphere into position.

The completed Glyph had flared with coloured lights – purple chased by green bleeding into blinding white – and the daunting music they had almost tuned out had spiked suddenly, overwhelmingly.

With a quiet rumble, the lights of the Glyph had shot upwards in piercing, vertical rays.

Harry had cried out, momentarily blinded, but Itachis' training had allowed him to not be bothered by the flashy technique. Smoothly, he had grabbed Harry and jumped him out of the way and behind the relative safety of a rocky boulder, before turning to face the monstrous creature that had, somehow, been summoned, with a resigned sigh.

It had been an impressive, fiery figure: an enormous winged creature of smoke, with brown skin and long horns and claws, and spouting scorching flames, hot and hungry enough to consume all they touched and turn the world to ashes.

Itachi had never even imagined something like it could exist.

It had roared so loud that the ground had trembled and rising flames had bathed its bulky frame, spiking up all around it arrestingly.

Itachi had braced himself and when the burning beast had abruptly slashed the boulder protecting Harry with a fiery claw, he had been ready to intercept it, shoving his charge behind him, protecting him from all harm; and he had instantly retaliated, a volley of kunai nailing the huge, brown body, eliciting a pained howl.

He'd started running along the wall of the cave, keeping up his barrage, drawing the attention of the creature away from Harry's hiding place.

The beast had roared again and thrown a hastily gathered ball of flames at him, but with his speed and reflexes, it had been easy to avoid the blast.

Face impassive, he had concentrated fully on the battle, choosing and discarding strategies with quickness. It was reasonable to expect a fire elemental to be weak to water, so he had displayed his unfortunately not so vast knowledge of Water Techniques, aiming a pressurized jet of water straight at the creature.

It had warmed almost to boiling point in the few seconds it had taken it to cover the distance between him and his opponent, steam already rising from it, weakening the attack as part of it evaporated, but when it had reached its target, it had struck true.

The creature of fire had cried a long moan and Itachi had fallen back lightly, still on guard. Unfortunately, instead of being defeated, the monster… had changed.

All his flames had died out abruptly and it had fallen to pieces, blackened and charred, collapsing to the ground, where, however, it had reformed even as it crumbled into a stocky mass of stones, loosely resembling a bull but with the legs of a feline, all made of hard rock.

A mere stomping of one of his huge rocky paws had been enough to provoke an earthquake. Itachi had been forced to use chakra to maintain his balance and Harry had cried out in fear from the other side of the cave, dangling from a spike of rock he'd been pushed off of, his Rod cluttering away from him.

Thankfully Lightning Techniques had always featured prominently in Itachi's arsenal, so he had the advantage against this earth elemental. The piercing damage of the wave of lightning bolts he had shot at it had broken the creature apart with ease: the rock had shattered and crumbled under his finishing kicks until the creature had fused and melted, dripping to the floor in a diluted puddle that had slowly morphed into a fluid water-wave, rising again and gathering momentum, towering over him, gaining a sort of vaguely serpentine form.

Resigned to leaving Harry more or less to his own devices for the moment, Itachi had slammed his hand into the ground, raising an Earth Wall to protect them both from the incoming water blast, and forced his battered body to ignore his growing fatigue. Only his unnatural speed had allowed him to to form the lengthy sequence of handsigns needed quickly enough that the Water Dragon he'd copied on a mission in Mist had been evoked in the nick of time to contrast the threat. The watery constructions had clashed into each other with a great, noisy splash.

He had not been at all surprised when crackling lightning had started running up and down the watery limbs, turning more and more water into electricity with every passage, until a vaguely bird-like figure could be guessed, not defined or corporeal but all too real and dangerous, made of running lightning energy, clear and bright. He'd guessed by now that the terrible opponent would switch through all the elements. Hopefully just the basic ones. At least what had been left after this had been the best match for his abilities. He had just had to hope that he would have enough chakra reserves to outlast the monster.

In the meanwhile, his mastery of Wind Techniques being even lesser than of Water ones, Itachi had had no choice but to resort to physical attacks. Thankfully, while he generally preferred more sophisticated and discreet methods, he could, when needed, unleash brute, devastating power through chakra-enhanced hits.

He had jumped as far away from Harry as possible, however. Lightning users were generally faster than any other: he had known he would most likely not be able to evade the creature's attack that time, and he hadn't wanted Harry to be electrocuted, not even just in a sideswipe.

The lightning attack had slammed into him, alighting his nerve endings with pain. It had _hurt…_

His impassive mask had shattered for an instant and he had vacillated. Harry's terrified, painfilled cry had resounded in his ears. Panic had jolted through him. Had his charge been hurt after all?

But a moment later he'd realized that Harry's cry were morphing into something else... a rhyme?... something had been glowing at the edge of his vision, dark purple streaks and white stars drawing an illusionary sphere around him... and then cool relief had spread through his body... his vision had cleared, his balance steadied.

On the other side of the monster, he'd caught sight of Harry bracing himself in what looked like a finishing stance, his Rod glowing with slowly fading energy. With a jolt of shock, he'd realized that his companion had _healed_ him: casual chatters Harry had shared with him countless times about 'white magic', that he'd not taken into too much consideration, suddenly had acquired a whole new importance.

But it hadn't been the time to wonder about the other boy: the creature had been charging him, sparks of lightning growing at its command, and whatever his power, Harry's lack of training had made it impossible for him to avoid the attack.

Spurred by his panic, Itachi's retaliatory technique had sprouted a spear of lightning from his mouth, and he'd put enough destructive power in it to pierce the crackling form just an instant before it reached Harry and thunderously nail it to the rock walls behind, which had cracked and crumbled under the impact.

Panting, Itachi had painstakingly climbed to his feet, feeling woozy with the loss of chakra, but a whole lot better than he'd expected: somehow, all of his minor injuries, the scrapes and bruises that slowly accumulated, had been fully healed. It had amazed him almost to the point of distracting.

Fortunately, the hit had been puissant enough and the yet again reforming creature had retreated into the shadows. Itachi could barely see its outline and that had told him that his genetic Eye Technique had automatically switched off, probably because he was reaching the end of his chakra capacity. There had been no mistaking the tornadoes it had been raising at its sides however, this had to be the wind incarnation.

Weary, Itachi had forced himself to stand up, locking away his pain and gathering his chakra to reactivate his hated Sharingan, ignoring his ever growing exhaustion.

Wind was the most dangerous element, but also the one he could contrast the most easily. Fire affinity was a mark of his line after all.

Determined to stop the monster before it could launch any other attack that might have a chance to hurt his charge, Itachi had compressed as much chakra as he could still afford to inside his body and skilfully released it into a dragon-shaped fireball of devastating potency. Its power and reliability made this one of his favourite techniques and the wind currents of his opponents had only worked in his favour, feeding the flames.

The blast had been something to behold.

Itachi's vision had obscured and his body had slid slowly to the floor. A deep, booming voice had resounded, oddly distant: "...I shall serve you, Summoner…"

Had he remembered how to, he would have smiled. Mission accomplished.

Then thin arms had closed around him and he had heard sobs, his name chocked out among them… Harry? Why was he crying? Was he hurt? He hoped not… he couldn't muster any energy to help him… Had Itachi failed after all? Had Harry been caught in the last backlash perhaps? He had fought against the blackness raising all around him… he had to make sure Harry was alright…

The cool relief had returned, pouring through his body just as soothingly as it had during the battle... so odd... he really should have paid more attention to Harry's chatter...

He'd come slowly to his senses, realizing that he lay on the ground, that someone was sobbing: "Itachi… please…"

Then he'd realized he was being held close to Harry's lean body. Sounds of someone rummaging frenetically nearby... a bottle brought to his lips... his hearing had been coming and going "Please… please drink this… from O'aka… feel better…"

Confused, Itachi had tried to tell him: "Doesn't matter… I'm... not important..."

"Don't!" had cried Harry, frantic. "Don't ever say that!"

"But..."

"You're important to _me!_" had shouted Harry, tears in his green eyes. He had looked so desperate, so pain-filled, that Itachi's breath had caught. "You're important to me, Itachi," had repeated the child, brokenly.

For a long moment, Itachi had been too stunned to react.

Then he'd drunk, and leant back to contemplate his young companion, and finally given a tiny nod – an acknowledgement of the disorienting revelation.

Harry's tremulous smile had been as beautiful as the sun dancing through the leaves, back home…

From then on, Itachi had been more careful with his own life. Nothing would ever stop him from taking the blows directed at his Lord Summoner, or laying his life down for him if it was ever needed, but he was careful not to throw it away.

He glanced to his side again and could easily guess the other teen's knowing gaze in the darkness.

"You're still important to me," said Harry. "You always will be."

Itachi didn't smile outwardly, he never did, but he relaxed completely, like he only ever did in Harry's company. And as always, his Lord Summoner understood.


	9. Duty of Every Summoner

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

_A/N: __This chapter is all over the place... going back and forth along the timeline every other paragraph or so... but I can't help it, every time I try and rewrite it, it turns out just as convoluted. I guess it's just the way Scar is!_

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**

Duty of Every Summoner

Scar grimaced as yet another of the 'ghosts' joined the babbling group crowding the Summoner.

The silvery, see-through creatures unnerved him. Badly. He'd seen some horrifying things… homunculi… deformed experiments... empty objects with independent thought... animated corpses... but somehow, he found these... _spectres._.. the most disturbing.

'Unsent', Harry had called them.

Even their name was unnerving.

Their Summoner had explained, the previous night after they'd retreated to the rooms they'd been given, that they were souls that had not accepted their own death and refused or been unable to 'go on'.

"Why the hell would they stick around?" had cried Seifer, slashing air with his weapon like he always did when something upset him.

Scar had snorted silently.

Why indeed? He didn't need to ask this question. He knew all too well. That Seifer could be perplexed by the idea certainly spoke of his youth. For all his cynicism and sarcasm, for all his skills and smarts, the blond was still such a child.

The quest for immortality was so common… so foolish… so human.

Even his own people, whose religion had for centuries forbidden such lines of thoughts, had not been immune to the allure, if not of lingering in the world, at least of keeping their loved ones close forever.

In fact, he probably shouldn't have been so shocked by these pearly souls refusing their own death and stubbornly clinging to life. Well... existence, at any rate.

Countless had tried to cheat death in innumerable ways. So why not this?

It still unnerved him though and he would have much preferred them to keep away from his Summoner.

Unfortunately, the numerous spectres seemed instead determined to cling to Harry.

The main reason why the ghosts were crowding the Lord Summoner was an offer he'd made the previous night, just before leaving the banquet held in his honour – which, in Scar's opinion, hadn't ended a minute too soon. If he never had to attend such a thing again, he would count himself blessed!

The students gawking and loudly whispering their sappy and ignorant gossip the whole bloody time, he could have coped with: he'd been steeling himself for the task of bearing with their silliness ever since he'd found out they were going to a school.

But politicians?

Those he'd have gladly done without.

How Harry could remain politely neutral in the face of their greedy pettiness and narrow-minded egocentrism, Scar didn't know. Their nonsensical nattering had made him itch to break some bones. They talked to the Summoner endlessly in a saccharine adulatory tone of voice, obviously trying to get on his good side, and managed to slip a boisterous self-aggrandizing comment every two sentences – clearly they liked to talk about themselves. Then there were the giggly and flirty 'wives of' – Scar had lost count of how many attempts at getting unnecessarily close to the Summoner his fellow Guardians and he had had to stifle with glares and hissed threats (or, in Seifer's case, by redirecting their irritating admiration upon himself).

Scar had been unspeakably glad to be leaving them, along with all their annoying questions about the Summoner's personal life, the blatant requests to support this or that absurd charity or cause, and the ridiculous claims of their own prominence and power.

Nor had the previous evening been enough! This morning they'd been at it again – absurd people hounding the Summoner, trying to get him to help out some complete stranger's career, or get some fawning sycophant in the newspaper... At least Scar's own impassive mask as stoic unapproachable Guardian had served him well as shield; poor Harry instead had been forced to shake hands and murmur greetings for the better part of the morning, the only relief, if it could be considered such, the time he'd spent giving the speech he'd been roped into holding for the assembled students.

Which had been magnificent: Harry had cut a striking figure in his preferred cobalt blue outfit, standing on a dais in front of hundreds of children and adults, with his odd orange goggles raised above his forehead to keep his unruly hair in check. Seifer, who had remained straight and alert a step behind him, the whole time eyeing the crowd closely, looking for any hostiles like the perfect bodyguard, had added to the dramatic picture too.

The speech itself, delivered in the Summoner's most awe-inspiring voice – steadfast and gentle at once, the tone Harry reserved for the moments when he 'acted the part' for the people they met in their travels – was the kind that would nestle in the listeners' hearts and hardly be forgotten: the words unrolling over the reverent audience would likely be carried to the grave by each and every one of them, so strong had been their impact.

Scar found himself shaking his head in wonder every time, when Harry went into 'Summoner mode': in sharp contrast with his often irritating or childish bouts of everyday attitude, whenever he fell into the role of Summoner he displayed wisdom and maturity that would have shocked Scar, had he seen them in someone else that young. Yet the "Lord Summoner's" age was not so easily definable as "Harry's": some measure of experience appeared in his eyes and behaviour when he assumed his role that belied his youth. Scar put it down to the Summoner's peculiar and almost incomprehensible relationship with the ageless, immortal Aeons.

The message of the speech, as was often the case with Harry, was at once extremely simple and nowhere near easy.

The importance of friendship and unity... 'Sticking together, helping each other' - that was the alpha and omega of Harry's take on life. His Guardians had certainly been subjected to passionate speeches on the matter often enough, not that they minded. Their very lives as they were now were proof of it after all: despite their less than ideal backgrounds, despite their tendency towards being lone wolves, despite their striking differences, they had become as close and as tight as a family. Thanks to Harry.

"Children see you as a hero," had told him the Headmaster - and Harry had promptly turned the table on the students: "You don't need awesome powers, or fantastical riches, or unheard-of skills to be heroes," his voice had echoed in the enraptured silence, "you don't need to fight crime or rule over thousands: a hero is anyone who tries to make a difference and believe me, even an everyday person can change the world for the better. A Healer who cures a terrible illness. A Designer who invents a product that makes life easier for many people. A Trader who shares unusual goods all over the world... Every one of you can be a hero. But one thing I am positive about is that no-one can do it on their own. As someone once told me... _th__ere are some things you can't do alone. But they become easy with friends beside you._ Remember that. Cherish your friends, make new ones; and when the time comes to walk into the darkness, do it together..."

Harry had confessed at the end of the lecture that a lot of his speech had been inspired by a similar one he'd heard as a child, from three 'heroes' who were, apparently, some of the most admired leaders of his home world.

It didn't change the fact that it would never have had the impact it had if Harry hadn't believed utterly and completely in every single word. That faith shone through every look and gesture he offered the students and made it all the more awe-inspiring.

It was a pity that Scar had only been able to hear bits and pieces of it and had been distracted for most of the morning. Unavoidable, however. Normally he enjoyed these moments in which Harry's odd wisdom made him look ageless and otherworldly, but his duty as Guardian came before anything and that morning both he and Itachi had been preoccupied with another task.

Namely, figuring out why their Summoner's looks had completely shocked most of the adults they'd met in this fancy castle.

The reactions when, just before taking his seat at the feast, Harry had tossed back his hood and raised his weird goggles over his forehead, using them to hold back his unruly black bangs, had been completely unexpected. Revealing his face – his green eyes especially – had drawn startled gasps and frantic mutterings and Scar's sharp eyes had narrowed as he took in the unanticipated responses: shock... disbelief... surliness here and there, some measure of worry, even... happiness, hope, a couple instances of elation... a lot of general upset – and all in the space of a few heartbeats.

One thing had appeared sure: his looks were familiar to the older generation at least. And offering them Harry's name had certainly made an impression!

Scar and Itachi had exchanged a brief, meaningful glance, as usual agreeing perfectly without the need for words. It was imperative that they found out what that was all about...

Despite their efforts, though – efforts to which they'd dedicated the better part of the morning – they hadn't been able to get a straight answer yet and it didn't sit well with him. Some half-buried instinct told him that this was important, but everybody seemed to have clammed up completely. It was frustrating, and worrisome.

At least, Harry had born it all more calmly than Scar could have ever imagined, both that morning and the previous evening; and when the feast had finally – finally – been drawing to an end, he'd surprised everybody, including his own Guardians, by turning to the Headmaster and saying: "If you would allow me, Professor Dumbledore, I would be grateful for the opportunity to make a small offer..."

The Headmaster, who'd been thoughtful and meditative the whole time after seeing Harry's face (as well as happy and guilty and calculating, which was disturbing), had recovered in an instant all of his exuberance: "Of course! Of course! In fact," his eyes had started twinkling madly, to Scar's mild alarm, and that had been when he'd trapped them in the speech-giving: "if I may presume... I was hoping you would be willing to speak to the children..."

"...speak to the children?" had echoed Harry a little perplexed.

"Of course!" had enthused the Headmaster. "It is very encouraging when someone famous and admired gives a speech, after all. You are, without a doubt, a role model for all of us... the students see you as a hero and I am sure that they would be enthusiastic about a few words from you! Perhaps a little demonstration, even..."

The Summoner had blinked, surprised, but had quickly recovered: "Oh, hum, sure... right, uh... how about tomorrow morning then?"

"That sounds perfect," had smiled the old Headmaster – and thus they'd been set up for a less than interesting way to spend the morning, no matter how riveting Harry's charisma could make a speech; but Scar had refrained from complaining. It wasn't his place, for one, and for two, Seifer did it better.

Then the Headmaster, remembering the Summoner's request, had stood and raised a hand, instantly commanding silence from the rows and rows of teenaged students.

"We truly are living in wondrous times!" he'd exclaimed joyously, making Scar roll his eyes, albeit discreetly. The man _felt_ powerful, was clearly intelligent, but he acted too much like a jovial politician for someone who was supposed to be head of a school. "The coming of a Lord Summoner is a rare event and in fact, it hasn't happened for centuries. It is a great honour for our school to be hosting such a guest and I know that you will all extend every courtesy to our guests while they are with us. And now, without further ado, it is my very great pleasure to present you... the Lord Summoner Harry."

He'd kept smiling winsomely as he'd sat again and gestured for Harry to step up and the glint of – was that _pride?_ - in his eyes as he mentioned the Summoner's name had given Scar a very uneasy feeling.

Harry had hesitated only a moment before nodding graciously and then had stood to address the gathered students. "Thank you for your kind welcome. I have travelled a lot in my life and each stop was, in its own way, unforgettable. I can already tell that Hogwarts, too, will be a visit I will cherish in memory for as long as I live."

There had been a smattering of applause at that. At every table, Scar could see people either gazing raptly, or else whispering fervently to their neighbours. But then Harry had spoken again, and the Hall had quieted once more.

"I will hold a brief conference tomorrow in the morning, so if you have any questions for me, you'll have a chance to ask them then. Also... I wish to extend an invitation to all of the unresting spirits."

He'd sought out with his gaze the four translucent figures at the long House tables and told them calmly: "I will perform a Sending tomorrow."

Instantly there had been an uproar from the spirits present (and Scar was still grimacing with shock that they were allowed near children) as well as from the confused humans.

To the shock of many, a pearly-white see-through figure of a fat, short man with a habit held by a rope belt and a transparent mug in his hand had streaked through the Hall, heedless of what and who he was running through – literally – and shouting about having to 'tell everybody else immediately!'

Not everybody had looked pleased however. A tall transparent woman wearing a floor-length cloak, who, Scar thought with a brief pang of old regret, would have been as beautiful as Lust had she not looked so haughty and arrogant, was screeching her upset and when the remaining two ghosts, two gentlemen if Scar was to guess, had tried to approach her, she'd fled, her whitish waist-length hair flapping dramatically.

The two male spectres had sighed, then bowed low to the Summoner before leaving the Hall to track her.

The confusion had only increased, with everybody wondering and speculating ever more loudly. Harry had looked, Scar'd noticed, rather flabbergasted; but then he tended to consider as normal things that to most people were beyond even imagination. He probably couldn't understand how mind-boggling most of his life was to others. Part of his charm, in Scar's opinion.

The Headmaster had regained order with a loud bang from his wand, that'd made Seifer jump and glare at him and Itachi and Scar twitch, though he doubted anyone had taken notice; then he'd politely asked the Summoner to explain.

Harry had shaken his head in mild shock: "I... do not understand this uproar. I merely wish to offer a Sending to the Unsent..."

"A... Sending?" had frowned the Deputy Headmistress, the old, stern lady who had welcomed them to the castle, who'd asked curiously: "What is that?"

Many other adults were interestedly listening in, teachers and politicians alike; the children, on the other hand, had gone back to excitedly discussing the peculiar evening among each other, sharing their awe for the Summoner and his Guardians alike.

Harry had stayed silent for a long moment, brow furrowed and eyes distant, likely gathering his thoughts for the answer.

Then, slowly, but with calm confidence, had explained: "The dead need guidance. Not all of them, of course, but... often, especially if their death was unexpected, or violent, if their taste for life is still strong enough that they yearn to live on and resent those still alive... filled with grief over their own death, they refuse to face their fate. And so they linger..."

"We know what a ghost is," had grumbled acidly an unpleasant-looking wizard with dark, oily hair that had done little but glaring furiously at Harry from the moment he'd revealed his face, thus gaining himself a place on Itachi's '_to carefully keep under observation since I cannot simply kill him, unfortunately'_ list.

Harry had regarded him levelly: "But it is not what they crave, that tarriance; merely a shadow of the existence they once knew... because of that, they envy the living. And in time, that envy can turn to anger, even hate."

The Headmaster had frowned: "None of our ghosts are in any way violent or..."

"I do not doubt it, Headmaster," had interrupted the Summoner, "however, it is not a good existence, by any reckoning. Nor is it healthy for those souls: should they remain in the world for too long, they might become fiends that prey on the living. I have seen it happen... And even if their will is strong enough not to fall into mindlessness, is it not right to give them release? What I am offering is a freeing Ritual... the Sending takes them to the Farplane, where they may rest in peace."

After a moment of silence, he'd added, a little edgily: "It is part of the duty of every Summoner."

Most of the adults had looked either perplexed or fascinated, or both.

"Well, if that is the case..." the Headmaster had trailed off with a curious mix of uncertainty and eagerness. "However, the members of all Houses' Quidditch teams have organized a friendly match in your honour, that is our sport, you know, a much loved one, played on flying broomsticks... the match is to be held tomorrow, right after lunch, and will be preceded by a show of talents our Clubs have prepared: surely you won't disappoint the children by denying us your presence...?"

Scar – and, he was sure, Itachi and Seifer too – had mentally groaned at the idea of another very public, no doubt very crowded event they couldn't get out of, where security would be a nightmare and the entertainment value likely non-existent.

Which had turned out to be true for him at least; the stands surrounding the pitch had been crowded with wildly cheering people, continually jumping up and down and waving arms and flags, far too close for comfort. The game itself had made no sense to the Ishvalan; Harry though had looked intrigued and kept muttering comparisons to 'blitzball', whatever that was. When he'd congratulated both teams at the end, Scar could tell it wasn't just his usual I'm-dealing-with-the-public politeness: he had enjoyed the match.

The previous evening however the Summoner had let all mentions of odd flying sports fall aside, and merely thanked the school at large with perfect politeness, assuring the Headmaster that after the match would be soon enough for the Sending.

"Will you need us to provide anything...?" had asked the Deputy Headistress. "And where do you wish to... perform, this... ceremony?"

Harry had smiled just a little: "On the lake would be best, I think" he had replied, and so here they were this sunny afternoon, making their way through a bright green lawn towards the majestic body of water nearby the castle.

The place was admittedly beautiful.

Born and bred on desert soil, Scar was always at once yearning and uneasy when confronted with green lands, where clear waters abounded and the harshness of rocks and sand was hidden under the lush of softly rolling meadows. Some part of him felt almost as if the resilience and strict codes of conduct his people had always prided themselves in, became diluted and weakened by the lure of relaxation a flowery grassland offered.

Yet at the same time, he could not deny that the sunny lake banks were a wonderful corner of dreamland.

The only drawbacks he could bring himself to find were strategic: he knew his fellow Guardians would be just as displeased as him with the open expanse and number of people there. Crowds weren't the optimal conditions to ensure the protection of their charge. By far.

Itachi, he could see it, was silently fuming, on edge with all these _armed civilians_ so close. Not that it was easy to tell. He was perfectly relaxed and perfectly poised - on the surface. Scar knew better by now, however.

Seifer... was basking in the giggling admiration of a bunch of silly girls. Predictably.

Scar noticed however that the blond's sharp gaze was sweeping the area for potential threats anyway: he might be a cocky attention-seeking brat, but he was also a powerful, well-trained elite mercenary and damn good at the job.

Scar hid his annoyance at _yet another_ useless politician, who like many others had for some reason felt it his due to remain long after he'd overstayed any usefulness, pompously approaching the Lord Summoner, so full of his own self-inflated importance that Scar was surprised he didn't start floating like an obnoxious, rotund, gas-filled balloon.

He didn't let his mind wander, though: his eyes stayed sharp, ready to catch even the slightest hint of a possible threat, however unlikely to come from such a source.

Truthfully, he did not expect anything untoward to happen. So far, this visit had gone pretty smoothly. The place didn't seem in the least hostile and most people looked too intimidated and awed by the Summoner to even approach, thankfully: only the stupidest annoying schemers and those _ghosts _did.

However just because the place appeared safe didn't mean he would lower his guard even for a minute. He _would_ ensure his Lord Summoner's safety. At any cost.

One of the silvery, transparent figures sailed out of the crowd, his bearing impressively regal despite the fact that it was floating, and Scar clenched his teeth.

It was an imposing man, gaunt and very pale, with wide, sunken black eyes. Scar recognized one of the gentlemen that were at the feast the previous evening. In the daylight, the fact that his pearly-white robes were covered in silver bloodstains was definitely noticeable.

Scar examined it closely, tensing slightly when it made its way purposefully to the Summoner, scattering the others who looked at it nervously. But there was no threat in its countenance.

"My Lord Summoner..." it said in a deep, hoarse voice, bowing low. "I cannot express my gratitude for your generous offer. I am more than ready to leave this existence..."

"Of course," answered Harry politely, bowing his head and performing his peculiar greeting with his usual grace.

"Hey, what's with the chains, grampa?" blurted Seifer, who had heard of good manners and decided they were a not altogether desirable optional in life. Scar rolled his eyes.

The ghost glowered at the impertinent youth, but whatever he might have said was interrupted by a female voice ringing out with loud bitterness: "He wears them in penance!"

"Helena!" cried the ghost in mild shock.

"Don't you dare!" The spectral woman of the night before sailed out of the crowd like an avenging angel. "Don't – you – _dare_ – use my given name! You have no right... and I can't believe you – I can't believe you would choose to move on when-"

"Helena, for the love of-"

"Hold your tongue!" she shrieked.

"Helena! How can you be so unreasonable! For so long we have lingered – and to what end!"

"You dare ask...?"

"Your anger has not relented..."

"Of course not!"

"...my guilt has not abated!"

"It better not!"

"I am tired, Helena. Tired of this all... I have repented. I want _peace,"_ the translucent gentleman stressed.

Scar's eyes swept the sea of ghosts, students and other gawkers around him, well aware that distractions like this could be exploited by ill-doers, but everybody was gazing transfixed at the fighting spirits, holding their breath before the unfolding drama.

"Don't forget it, Baron! I know what you've done! I know who you truly are! Violent, hot-tempered..."

"Ten centuries, Helena! Ten centuries of _this_..." the transparent chains rattled soundlessly. "What man would still be the same after so long?"

"If you think I've forgotten..."

"How far do you intend to take your revenge, Helena?"

"Revenge! Is this what you think I'm doing?"

"What else do you call it?"

"Justice!"

"This is no justice! Neither you nor I have any right to use that word!"

"You certainly have not! I remember, Baron! I remember what you did... how you tracked me to the forest where I was hiding and when I refused to return with you..."

"I sinned, and every hour of every day since, I have regretted my foolish actions, but-"

"You stabbed me!" she shrieked, drowning his pleading explanations.

Gasps rose from the crowd, dismayed and avid at once.

"You're a murderer!" she accused.

"And you're a thief!" retorted the Baron snappishly, drawing more gasps from the onlookers.

"And you're both dead," intervened the Summoner quietly, serenely.

Somehow, his calm voice echoed clearly and managed to cut through the entire scene and freeze everybody.

"You are dead," Harry reiterated gently. "Let grudges and wishes fade... let rancour and vindictiveness be things of the past... you no longer belong in this world..."

It was that, Scar thought, that calm, that even tone of truth, that had always struck him the most about his Lord Summoner. He had met children too mature for their age – the Fullmetal Alchemist and his cat-loving brother came to mind – but even they burned with passion and contradictory emotions. Of course, Harry too had his fair share of teenage tantrums and foolish fun – and Seifer had been a bad, bad influence in that area – but when the situation called for it...

He could manage a level of serenity and impartiality that, in Scar's experience, was almost unreachable. Especially when discussing death.

Too bad some people couldn't realize what a precious gift this composed wisdom was when the Summoner offered to share it.

The ghastly lady was still screeching: "You were jealous of my freedom! You couldn't accept-"

But the gentleman seemed to have had enough at last and cut her off roaring: "I'm tired of your self-righteous recriminations. Tired of lingering only to be berated and bedevilled. I want peace, and _so should you_! It is time to move on!"

"And be forever forgotten?" she yelled, furious and scared. "You would like that, wouldn't you? For your sins to be washed away from memory... but I, _I don't want to disappear!_"

Scar closed his eyes with a heavy feeling of resignation wrapped around him. Of course, _that_ was the problem in the end. So, so human...

Suddenly Harry moved forth, determination in every step: he placed himself between the two and stared down the enraged, frightened woman, unintimidated by her wild expression and eerily twisting long hair.

"I'm going to ask you something, Lady," said the Summoner severely, "and I expect a honest answer. Is this truly what you want? _This_? To walk palely where your living self once trod? To forever endure this feeble imitation of life?"

"You don't understand..."

"You speak with dread of being forgotten. But are you remembered after all? No-one here knows your name or your story, do they?"

She faltered: "The Baron..."

"You don't want him to move on because you know he is the last to bear the memory of what you were," said the Summoner matter-of-factly. "Selfish."

She backed away from him, shooting wild looks at the students and teachers gathered and watching: "It is his penance to..."

"You're dead," repeated Harry once more, as patient and as unmoving as a granite rock. "Penance, sins, anger, regrets... None of that matters anymore."

"I don't want to disappear," hissed the woman desperately, hunching on herself.

The Summoner took another step toward her and lowered his voice to a soothing, gentle tone: "Our dead are never lost to us, until we have forgotten them. Yet you, Lady... you are lost already and it isn't death that makes you so. Here you are, but while the imprint of your spirit lingers, what makes you _you_ is forgotten; too hidden beneath your shame and remorse, too jealously guarded to be known, to be remembered. You are here, yet you are already gone, in every way that counts. So what is the point?"

A heart-wrenching sob tore itself from the ghost.

"Oh, Helena..." moaned the Baron, hovering worriedly. She refused to let him close, though, and curled even more onto herself.

"Dear lady, I ask you to have the courage of placing your life in the memory of the living," coaxed the Summoner. "Tell us your story, Lady Helena... tell it in full, the way it should be remembered. No lies, no omissions, no twisted representations of yourself: tell us about _you_. And then... then, let go. We will remember, for that is for the living to do. And you... will be at peace."

There was a long silence. It felt as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting on the spirit's decision.

Then, a whisper: "I am scared."

"It is not uncommon to be afraid of death," Harry's voice took on a reassuring timbre. "As children fear to go in the dark, so adults fear to walk to their death, and much for the same reason: because we do not know what awaits us there. Yet just like that natural fear of darkness in children is increased by tales, so is our fear of death. Fear, too, will vanish when you accept your passing. It is an emotion for the livings... let it go."

"And if I don't want to?" a last defiance, bravado and pettiness more than anything.

"Is it not more frightening to endure an inadequate life? Do you not think it possible that the peace awaiting you in the Farplane is a better choice after all?"

The ghost was visibly calming down and looking at the Summoner with wide, hope-filled eyes as he continued to murmur, compassionate and caring.

And that was just like Harry, thought Scar in amazement that didn't fade despite being, by now, an usual occurrence. He was always so empathetic. And by the naturalness with which he did it, it wasn't something he'd learned or been trained in. He'd been born with the ability to understand and share the feelings of another, and an instinctual desire to make things better if he but could.

It was, quite possibly, one of the reason the power of a Summoner had been entrusted to him, and also the only thing that could bring Scar to doubt his place at Harry's side.

What could he be doing so close to someone like Harry?

He was an assassin... he had seen, and done, countless horrors... he had been, at one point in life, so blinded by his grief-fuelled arrogance that he'd forgotten and trashed every value his people cherished and turned to that which had been shunned as evil just so as to do as much damage to his fellow humans as possible.

The fact that he'd been justified – or at least had felt so – didn't change the truth.

He used to be a mass murderer. Targeting Alchemists working for the state military of Amestris to avenge his people – the race of Ishval that was exterminated during the civil war – even if it meant becoming an exile and severing his ties to the very people he wished to avenge. He wouldn't deny it – he had chosen that path, that crime, and accepted the responsibility of his evildoings as the price for his revenge.

When they'd first met, Harry had naively asked whether 'Scar' was his actual name: "I have no name," had been his only answer.

And he didn't.

The alias the world used was derived from the prominent X-shaped scar that decorated his brow. His birth name no longer had any meaning, no longer had any value. He'd lost it along with everything else – his brother, his people, his faith, his life...

The fact that he had, somehow, been granted a second chance, a chance at redemption and meaningful purpose, at his Lord Summoner's side, was a fragile miracle that he feared might be smashed into cutting shards if exposed to the harsh reality of his past. A past he did his best to keep from Harry - and he was grateful that his Lord never asked.

It was one of the reasons he almost never talked. His silence was a bubble encasing the horrors he carried within his memory, not to protect them, but to spare the world, and most of all his elected charge, from experiencing them, even second hand.

Itachi understood. His fellow Guardian had a similar horror to contend with in his past. Not that he knew for sure what it was – Itachi, too, did not talk – but he could recognize it in the other's black eyes.

No two burdens of grief and guilt could be alike, but they did breed empathy: a shared kinship beyond those untouched by those kind of tragedies.

Even Seifer, for all his angsty dramatics, was still a child compared to them. He cried out loud for attention and affection. They were beyond that, too broken to even hope.

In spite of Harry.

Yes, his past was dark with terrible shadows that often reached out of his tormented heart to taint his view of the world – and of himself.

But Harry never seemed bothered by it. Or by Scar's stubborn, defeated silence.

The Summoner that had somehow swept him up and made him a part of his life, was a bright, bright soul. He was like an aglow comet – and they, the tail that followed that glow, drawn in and captivated.

Scar's mind wandered down the meanders of memory to the first time he'd seen the full strength of Harry's bright compassion...

It had been in the war-torn desert city of Lior. He'd been there with the idea of implementing his ultimate plan to stop the action of the State Military, a plan born of the gruelling studies that had at long last brought him to realize the true nature of his arm as an incomplete Philosopher's Stone.

He'd been all set to inscribe a gigantic transmutation circle around the city itself but in the end, he'd never got to it, because while he was doing a round to check that no obstacles would impede him, he'd by chance walked out of a ruined tunnel and into a wide, circular room, right on time to see a monstrous creature run out of the shadows and through the dimly lit stone floor.

The room had had a ceiling higher than two floors and columns lining it in a wide circumference, supporting ornate but decaying balconies, and the weird creature had climbed a column with ferocity and launched itself in a mad run along the railings, going round and round the room so fast it was dizzying to follow.

A chimera, he'd realized with a silent hiss: a creature synthesized by alchemically crossing two or more dissimilar living beings into a new, complete form displaying attributes of its 'components'. The realization had been accompanied by the usual twinge of horror: he'd met many of the horrid things, as they were well-suited for guard duty and were frequently positioned as such by the State Military, but the aberrations never failed to fuel his hatred of the State Alchemists.

Then his attention had been caught by two figures stepping cautiously forth.

Scar had ignored the aberration and tuned out its furious growls and cries, focusing instead on the two strangers, silently assessing them.

They were young, in their early teens he guessed, but the Elrich brothers had taught him that youth was not enough of a reason to lower his guard. One of them moved like a seasoned martial artist anyway.

The other... well, he'd admit easily that his first impression of the Lord Summoner had been of an oddball. Not only had he been wearing orange goggles: his cerulean blue clothes had been riddled with strings and leather straps and little stones and sparkly bits sewn in and he didn't even know what else. On top of that, he had been holding an extremely elaborated staff out horizontally, about as high as his shoulders, and Scar could have sworn that the thing had been humming.

The blue-clad boy had shouted something that sounded like a rhyme: "_Gift us with speed, make swift our limbs!" _and the giant, fluorescent, pink and gold outline of a complex clock – or maybe it was an Alchemical Circle, albeit unconventional – had appeared before the two, hovering for a long instant before vanishing into nothing.

An instant later they'd sprung away with shocking speed, barely avoiding the monstrous body of the chimera that had launched itself at them and crash-landed right where they'd stood not a second before.

Scar had followed their flash-quick movements through the room, amazed at the sheer speed they were displaying: every gesture they'd made had seemed sped up beyond the possibility of a human body, no matter how trained.

A part of Scar's mind had busily tried to work out what kind of Alchemical mumbo-jumbo might have generated such an effect, because it simply shouldn't have been possible; but the rest of him was already propelling his body forward in a ready stance.

He'd always been good at melée tactics and his hand-to-hand skills were more than up to par against an abomination like what they had been facing. His fist had stricken true, hard and relentless.

The martial artist stranger, a tall boy with black hair held back in a low ponytail, whose appearance had not seemed the most intimidating, until Scar had met and almost shied away from the intensity of his gaze, had nodded in acknowledgement of his support. Scar had found himself reluctantly impressed with his remarkable agility and reflexes and deceptive speed. But he, too, was no slouch and he could boast significant strength and stamina.

It had taken the two a while to coordinate their attack styles, though the boy's professionalism and experience in that were such that had put him to shame; plus Scar had been disconcerted by the random interventions of the staff-wielding boy, who'd remained on the sidelines but was apparently a skilled healer – Scar's rib had been broken by a vicious lash of the creature's tail and the pain had completely disappeared in a haze of whitish light, courtesy of the boy and a rhyme of his about a 'fountain of health' or something.

Once they'd got a rhythm settled, it had become clear that the inhuman beast was taking quite the beating and its increasingly frantic trashing bore testimony to their approaching victory. When they'd managed to shatter its left front paws and it had fallen with a terrible cry, it had been over: they'd had the monster down in a matter of seconds, Scar's own vicious combo – a flurry of kicks counterpointed by quick stabs of his arms aiming at pushing aside any blow directed at him and open up the target's vital points – perfectly integrated by the boy's volleys of sharp knife-like throwing weapons and perfectly timed bursts of fires – so controlled the Flame Alchemist himself would have been proud.

When their attack combo had come to a close, the chimera had been thoroughly trashed: broken, bruised and singed, with blood and bile splattering the floor around it, it had looked so pitifully pathetic that all Scar could think of was to put the thing out of its misery.

The staff-wielding boy, however, had stayed his hand, already raised to strike: "_Heal_ _all wounds and cure all illnesses, and only let dead spirits go_ – that is the lore of all white mages," he'd said softly. "Let me try and help it."

Scar had blinked, perplexed, but stepped back.

He'd felt... disconcerted. The words of the green-eyed boy had resonated within him, familiar, yet all but forgotten. They were a reflection of what Ishvalian values had always been... he could almost hear his mother's voice echo softly in his mind – _Witchcraft insults Ishvala by implying that we humans can better upon His creations... but contempt and disregard for His creation is just as insulting... that is why we do not seek to destroy that which lives... there is no greater way to honour Ishvala than to offer healing or protection to His creations..._

Gently, carefully, the teen had knelt by the aberrant creature, that'd whimpered and trembled in an effort to scoot out of his reach. Scar had felt his stomach turn at how human those eyes still were. They had no business shining out of such a monstrous muzzle.

Moving deliberately slowly, the boy had put his hand on the deformed face, meeting those too human eyes without fear. Scar had admired his inner strength. _He_ was never able to overcome the utter disgust he felt for those abominations.

Closing his eyes, pained, he'd admitted to himself that he'd long lost his right to call himself Ishvalan. This strange boy, even with his earlier use of what had to be Alchemy, had been closer to the grace of his God than he.

A quiet murmur had come from the kneeling boy – and invocation to 'Healing Light' – and a soothing glow had followed the trail of his hand as he stroked the uneven patches of fur and scales lightly.

Then the white healing glow of the magic he was offering had coaxed a sickly green in answer from the horrid creature.

The boy had started, clearly surprised and just as clearly disturbed by the smoky green oozing out of the chimera. His voice had faltered and the strange liquid fume, almost as if sentient, had seized the weakness and risen viciously against the white, healing light, fighting it back; rallying, the teen had thrust his hand out, pushing back at the immaterial ooze, and it had become a battle.

Scar could only watch in wariness and awe as Power – alchemy? magic? willforce? - battled against the greenish heinous _disease_ rising from the chimera, struggling to purify it.

The monstrous creature had contorted and whimpered in pain as it had been enveloped in the battling lights, green evil spikes striking more and more feebly at the warm white slowly but surely overcoming them. The kneeling teen had been panting by then, his frame trembling with exhaustion and Scar had watched with growing admiration as he kept concentrating every last particle of his mind upon forcing the green back, strengthening the white; heedless of the fatigue and pain the effort was exacting from his body.

And then, with the suddenness of a taut rope snapping, the white healing glow had won and engulfed the monster in a glare too bright for human eyes to stand. Peering through his hand, that had instinctively shot up to shield his eyes from the explosion of light, Scar had seen the outline of the chimera rise in mid-air and _change_, evolve, mutate into something that despite retaining its mixed features, carried none of the conflict and unnaturalness of the abomination it had been.

To this day, the Ishvalan counted as the most disturbing and at the same time the most deeply rewarding experience of his life, the witnessing of that monster transcending to Aeon status.

Rewarding... and redeeming.

Harry had been sick for days afterwards. Pale and clammy, he'd slept a lot, only slowly recuperating. His silent companion had been outwardly impassive, but Scar could divine the terror and worry that lurked in his fathomless eyes as they nursed the Summoner back to health and had done his best to be discreet and supportive at once. It had been the first step towards the harmony and trust they shared today.

By contrast, the chimera – no, the Aeon – had been simply majestic.

It no longer had a vaguely human shape, though the front legs were still too much like arms for Scar's comfort: arms that ended in sharp, gleaming claws. It now had the head of a giant eagle, with a cruel, bronze-coloured beak, and the body of a lion, covered in golden fur, with only a pattern of scales trailing its spine on its back.

Its colours full, its health strong and its spirit indomitable, it stroke a proud, impressive figure as it hovered protectively over the three of them.

To Scar's surprise, it showed no sign of wanting to leave, or attack them.

On the contrary, the one time they'd been threatened, by a group of military sent by Colonel Archer, they hadn't even had the time to do anything: the arresting Aeon's growl had reverberated through the very stones and the ground under them, while the entity towered over the terrified soldiers and charged a large black liquid orb that had somehow formed between its claws, before slamming it powerfully onto the battlefield. It had had a variety of effects: the frightened men had started screaming their lungs out, some clawing at their eyes, others coughing up blood mixed with a greenish-black poison; still others seemed to fall prey to devastating emotions, of desperation, of paralysing fear or of fury so blind it thrust them at their own comrades' throats with ferocious yells...

Once the military squad had been sufficiently devastated, the Aeon had loftily settled beside them once more, appearing content to lazy away.

Odd as it may seem, Scar had felt like it was giving him the good example.

The Summoner had given of himself, selflessly, to save it, to give it a future. It seemed determined to repay the generous gift with companionship and service.

Similarly, the strange boy had given him a much needed, if incredibly gentle, wake up call.

He owed him, if nothing else, for that.

In a way... he owed him as much as the chimera did. For was not his spiritual health as important as the chimera's physical one?

He would repay him the same way.

And so Scar had stayed, becoming the Lord Summoner's Second Guardian.

He'd followed Harry into everything ever since – through more adventures and through more worlds than he had suspected could exist; to this bright green lawn at the feet of a fairy-tale castle, where a crowd of ghosts and living was listening to the broken story of a thousand-years-dead bitter lady...

Most children had sat down in the grass, listening fascinated to the narration; and when Lady Helena was done, sobbing the last of her tale, other ghosts timidly came up: a group of gloomy women wearing tunics and long wide pieces of woollen cloth over their shoulders and heads, encircling their face; a ragged knight in a heavy-looking suit of armour, with an arrow sticking out of his forehead; a squat girl with lank hair, pimples and thick glasses; an unbelievably old thin man clutching a spectral tome to his narrow chest...

All asking for the same thing – to be listened to, to be _remembered_, and only then, to be freed.

And Harry just listened patiently, serenely, without judging nor commiserating. Simply listening.

By the time everything was said and settled, sunset was close. The lake was a still, dark teal green expanse; the black outline of the forest circling it motionless and soundless.

Everything was quiet.

No-one dared break the solemnity of the atmosphere. It was as if the world itself held its breath as the Lord Summoner Harry took a deep breath and slowly walked out on the water.

One step, two, three… his bare feet barely disrupted the water, sending small ripples out in gentle circles.

A moment of suspended awaiting.

Then, the Summoner swung his Rod, tracing a wide arc and accompanying the movement with a turn of his own body. An otherworldly tune emanated from all around it, hieratic and harrowing, growing in strength and power with every move of his waving body, with every step of the enchanting dance.

The Sending had begun.

The music rose and fell with the Summoner's movements, the same eerie hummed tune that Scar had had occasion to hear a few times, whenever Harry used his Rod to the fullest: it always gave him the creeps, resonating in places inside him where music had no business reaching.

The Rod traced circles and arcs around Harry's turning body as he gathered and called to him the Unsent spirits.

Flames of blue fire sprung into existence, scattered among the awed crowd, and from the gathered ghosts quiet cries of relief and desperate longing arose, while their appearances melted slowly into shining pyreflies.

On and on Harry danced, around and around where he stood on the lake, every movement more decided, more compelling, a call no spirit could go unmoved by. Scar's own soul vibrated with longing, yet he knew he was only feeling a faint echo of the Summoner's ritualistic dance.

Every step had a meaning, every gesture called and gathered, dissolved illusions and opened truths, as the ancient pattern of the dance continued, Harry's movement smooth and fluid as they morphed into the next turn, the next wave or bow, the next skipping step, until with a sudden outburst of energy, the quiet lake's water shot up, raising the Summoner above reality, sparks of foam scintillating in the red and purple sunlight, matched by the pyreflies that flocked to the Rod and trailed its path through the air, weaving coloured magic – blue, green, indigo, white, grey – around the everdancing Summoner.

The water flared and fell like an impromptu fountain under his bare feet while he danced on, eyes lost into the depths of Death and Magic… his movements grew stronger and surer, faster and more energetic…

Scar's eyes – everybody's eyes - were riveted on the Summoner, entranced by the unbelievable spectacle.

His hair flared around his graceful movements, and more and more pyreflies rose to his call, from the waters, from the banks, and the setting sun tinted them and the water with reds and purples, orange flames and white reflexes, until Harry stood in a cocoon of water and magic like a stem in a fiery flower, and with a last, powerful stroke of his Rod, quieted.

All movement stopped abruptly, the compelling dance drawn to a sudden, mystical close.

For a long instant, only silence reigned, the world stilled at the peak of the amazing ritual, suspended. Scar knew he wasn't even breathing.

And then a soft sigh escaped the Summoner, all tension flowing from his body, and with the small gust of breath, all pyreflies flew away, dispersed, Sent at last, to where they would find peace.

The sun gently continued his descent and a barely there breeze stroked the tree tops. The water gently settled, without splashes, quietly, and gently, even light seemed to dim after the powerful flare, becoming restful, peaceful.

Slowly, the Summoner made his way back to the ground, on step at a time, his feet provoking faint ripples as silently as at the start of the ritual.

Everyone stood there, watching him. Scar knew well the feeling everybody was sharing right now, the feeling that the Summoner's magic always arose in whoever witnessed his feats: it was strange, and somehow sad, and elating at the same time. Unsettling, and awing.

Everybody was filled with deep emotions, even the most boisterous teenagers intimidated and hushed after feeling the compelling power of the Sending brush over them, raising goosebumps with the sheer strength of the magic invoked. Perhaps a little fearful, even. There was awe and wonder in their eyes as they looked at the Summoner, and very little understanding, but deference and reverence. Many bowed, clumsily, as if compelled to show their respect.

Harry was still filled with the moving power of the Sending, Scar could see it. Tears glistened in his emerald eyes. As always, concerned for the lives lost, for the spirits' sufferings. His compassion never ceased to amaze and shock the cynical, bitter Ishvalan.

Maybe that was why he stayed with Harry, why he was so determined to protect him at all costs?

But truthfully, it didn't matter. This was his place; Guarding his Lord Summoner was his meaning; and his fellow Guardians his family.

And that was that.


	10. Into the Forbidden Forest

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

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**When Worlds Collide**_  
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Into the Forbidden Forest

It was early morning, so early in fact that the faint dawn was still wrapping the world in whitish haze. Seifer hated early mornings. If days had any decency, they'd start at noon!

He could understand Harry's decision to sneak out at the first lights, though. No way did he want to be trapped by those no-good willy-nilly politicians again. Even his ever-patient Summoner had been completely exasperated and that was saying something. Boy was too tolerant for his own good. Always so unfailingly polite. Bah.

Come to think of it, it might have been fun to see him lose his patience for once. Unleash an Aeon on that fat, lime-green-topped moron… ah, well. It wasn't Harry's style, unfortunately - so here they were, their steps echoing faintly in the cold stone corridors of this weird school.

Heading towards the Forbidden Forest, to continue their Quest at last. If all went well, they'd be on their way soon. Seifer definitely wouldn't be sorry to leave this over-the-top cheap-fantasy-movie location! Maybe get some relaxation time in... a beach would be just the thing...!

They walked briskly but unhurriedly through the evocative, drafty corridors.

The very stones of this unbelievable castle seemed to be aware of their passage and the air was brimming with excited energy. So much so that if he listened intently, he could hear the energy taking the form of a diffused humming: a powerful tune, sad and triumphant at the same time, that somehow managed to be unnerving and reassuring all in one.

He recognized it: it was the hummed music that somehow always seemed to underline Harry's 'Summoner-moments'. He wondered idly if it was a manifestation of the Aeons' magic or something. It didn't really matter much. Whatever it was, it had soon become a favourite of his. It was good to hear it.

He whistled along happily and blithely ignored Scarface's glare. That man was way too sober. No appreciation for the tastier bits of life!

Of course, he kind of had reason.

One way or another – Seifer wasn't very clear about how it had happened, and Scar probably wasn't either – it had fallen to him to be the calm, reasonable, supporting presence of their little group.

Well, there wasn't much choice, really.

Itachi was a genius but wouldn't make any decisions for himself, he would accept every proposal of Harry's as an order and obey without battling an eye; not leadership material there, despite his deadliness. As for Seifer... he was absolutely bloody awesome, of course, but he himself would recognize that he was a reckless hot-head. As long as he didn't have to admit it out loud, of course.

Someone needed to be the voice of reason and the tall guy was the only one left, whether they liked it or not. Whether _Scar_ liked it or not.

No wonder the brooding bloke was so put out all the time.

It didn't matter. He might never say it out loud, because it would just be _not cool, _but Seifer actually appreciated the security that having someone sensible and trustworthy to turn to provided; he could put up with that someone being sombre. When it came right down to it, he'd take sullen and level-headed over bubbly and incompetent any day.

Still. He was going to get the man drunk some day or other – as soon as he figured out how!

His sharp, well-trained senses detected a group hiding not far and he tensed, suddenly all business. A moment later he relaxed again, his cocky smile returning. Silly fangirls. To think they'd got up before dawn just to intercept him!

He winked at them as they passed their hiding spot and the girls squealed and giggled. He caught some comments: 'sooo sexy...' – heh, that was him – 'ooh, those eyes...!' - he smirked - 'cool sword' – his eye twitched in sudden irritation, his weapon was a _gunblade!_ Not that those heathen could understand the difference…

Still, it was funny as hell to watch them drool over him and stalk his steps. He had his own Treepies. Heh – imagine that!

He intercepted a disapproving glare from Itachi and just grinned, wide and sharp. Riling Stoic Kid up was one of life's refined pleasures! A cuff to the back of his head from Scar made him roll his eyes. Yeah, yeah. He knew they were on duty! No need to be sourpusses about it.

The moment they stepped into the cool humidity outside, they assumed the formation they had used upon their arrival, with the three of them surrounding Harry. Somehow, it always gave Seifer a feeling of satisfaction and accomplishment.

Despite the early hour, a surprisingly high number of students had come to watch the Summoner starting his Quest, probably hoping for some awe-inspiring show. They were going to be disappointed, though, because Harry was sure they had to go far into the Forbidden Forest and the students weren't going to be able to see a thing.

As the name pointed out, the Forest was forbidden: strictly off limits to students. He would smirk about it if he wasn't too busy sneering at the memory of the protests the little piece of news about their intentions had garnered from their hosts.

"The Forbidden Forest!" they'd all babbled and snivelled. "Nonsense – it is far too dangerous! You can't possibly think of risking...!"

Bloody whiners. Who the hell did they think they were? Those... useless lazybones! Too dangerous. Hah! As if Guardians like them weren't perfectly able to protect their Summoner from _anything_!

In fact, Harry could probably defend himself well enough – not that he would ever need to. They weren't going to let anything happen to him. But still. He was far from helpless himself.

Too dangerous indeed!

Scar had held him back from giving the lot of them a piece of his mind – he always did, the spoilsport – but at least Harry had been adamant.

"We are here to walk through the Cloister of Trials and that is precisely what we shall do," he'd said firmly.

"And this Cloister just so happens to be in the Forbidden Forest?" had sneered the unpleasant greasy guy that had rubbed Seifer wrong from the very start. Professor... Snake, or something equally ridiculous.

Seifer had been quite proud when Harry had levelled the unpleasant man with a glare and simply retorted with a deadpan: "Yes."

Heh, the little Summoner had spunk.

Of course, Colour-blind Grandpa couldn't let it go: "I'm afraid you must be mistaken. I would never presume to know all the secrets of Hogwarts, of course, but I have never heard of a Cloister of Trials being hidden here!"

So he didn't know his school as well as he thought. Big deal. He was a Headmaster after all. They weren't expected to know much about their own schools. Seifer would bet Cid didn't have a clue about half the secrets of Garden either – and he'd founded the thing!

Harry, as usual, had chosen politeness – why, Seifer couldn't fathom – and spoken gently: "Nevertheless, my Rod guided me here, and I do not care to disregard its hints. Should we find no Glyphs on your grounds, Headmaster, I promise we will leave…"

"Not at all, not at all!" had been the hurried reassurance. "You and your Guardians are most welcome here! It is an unprecedented honour to host you. Please, feel free to remain as long as you wish!"

Nice to know they were valued, had thought Seifer sarcastically, even as Harry offered a polite: "You are most generous, Headmaster."

And with that they'd left, loftily ignoring the overexcited whispers following in their wake – but of course, the hushed, enthusiastic mutterings were back first thing this morning, trailing them in a rather annoying manner.

Seifer slashed the faint dawn mist with his beloved gunblade, once, twice, just to let out the irritation that had built in him as they moved through the stone corridors and then the beautiful grounds.

At least the Forest was close...

As he'd hoped, as soon as they left behind the gaggle of early-risers, whom a few teachers were at last corralling back to the school despite the loud protests, and made it a few meters inside the majestic woods, he felt the thoughts and worries fade, being replaced by the calm and confidence the other Guardians were already filled with.

This – accompanying the Lord Summoner – was his place and every time he was reminded of it he was relieved anew that he had found it.

He'd always known he was special, destined to great things.

It had been his dream to become a Sorceress Knight, ever since childhood, precisely because he felt it was his call to devote his life to protect someone extraordinary from the dangers they would face. It had seemed like the perfect sort of life and he'd been sure that he was the perfect sort of bloke to live it.

Which he was, by the way.

To be a Sorceress' Knight... what a dream it had been!

He had believed, for a while, to have fulfilled it: when he was serving the Sorceress Edea. Yet the seriousness and devotion he had offered to Matron – not that she remembered who she was – had never been valued: he'd given her his everything, only to be cast aside.

She had been too taken with the strange young man with the cold eyes and cruel smirk, infatuated with his dangerous charm and utterly blind to how he was callously manipulating her and her ill-fated attraction. And the stranger had been all too aware of the threat Seifer posed to his influence... a true Knight, one whose bond was respected and valued by his Sorceress, would have been able to protect her even from his seductive games...

For a while, Seifer had judged him a rival; but the malevolent man had soon dispelled any such notions. He wasn't interested in the honour of serving the Sorceress: he expected to be served instead; and if Seifer had been a pitiful, controllable fool, the bastard would have likely endorsed his presence – as one of many strings to move the Sorceress as he pleased.

Seifer still wanted to scream when he thought of it – the mockery that dark-haired bastard had made of the sacred bond between Sorceress and Knight, and more, the careless way Matron, if she was still Matron at all, had accepted to throw Seifer away and replace him with a worthless, spineless puppet chosen by _that_ _man._

For a while, as the cruel manipulator's influence grew over the Sorceress and he was relegated further and further away from what should have been his rightful place, he'd tried to find something else in his life that would give meaning to his wasted efforts – fancying himself a fearsome strategist, deluding himself with tall tales of being a revolutionary; but his ragged appearance was a testimony to how little he'd believed it himself, and to how much it had torn him apart to act against his own conscience, to attack Garden of all places, to agree to bomb the only home he'd had in years. Every decision he hadn't been strong enough not to make under the command of the Sorceress, his craving for acceptance overwhelming enough to offset her weakening interest, had broken him a little more.

By the time he'd been relegated to the Lunatic Pandora, he'd been desperate for something, anything, that could return a measure of meaning to his life.

Yet the Sorceress had no longer held answers to his desperate thirst for meaning and belonging. If she ever had in the first place.

After all, the more Seifer thought of it, the less he was sure that the despicable stranger's manipulations had truly been the turning point. He suspected that it would have ended like this any way.

He had put so much faith in the Sorceress... expected her to be someone truly out of the ordinary, greater, _better_... expected her to see his true worth, and hold him dear, and take care of him as he looked after her...

She had, ultimately, disappointed him.

And left him desperate and broken, abandoned even by his friends – and oh, how it had hurt to see Fujin and Raijin hiding behind his enemies!

He'd been left to watch his rival's back as Squall walked away to his glorious future, with his bright Princess and the bunch of ragtags who hung around with him.

He'd been left behind, discarded, forgotten... just a memory, to be talked of in the past tense... it galled him that they'd probably end up talking fondly of him, the damn do-gooders, saying whatever corny nonsense they wanted – he'd heard it all before, _wasn't really a bad guy; was one of us_ – that kind of things had always irritated him to no end.

He didn't want to be a memory; but if he had to be, he'd rather be a fiery one of blazing glory, forever etched into everybody's mind as awe-inspiring and direful, not a mellowed, dying ember, growing fuzzy with time and banalities.

He'd tried, too, on his last chance to leave a mark on his world - the last bright spark of his own flame – he'd tried to achieve just that.

He'd been sent to the Lunatic Pandora, been ordered to raise the damn Pillar from the sea – an effort during which the incompetence of the soldiers he'd been saddled with had sorely tried his patience – and bring the huge, tasteless structure to Tear's Point to provoke a Lunar Cry. Squally Boy and his little clique, of course, had tried to stop him. It had almost felt good, to stand straight and proud in the face of their glowers once more – as if he was still himself... for a while at least...

He'd been a tough opponent. That much – or that little, as it were – he could still take pride in. His physical attacks had pushed those ragtags to their limits – the pink-clad Mediocre Instructor had been at death's door and the Chicken Wuss could barely stand when he was through with them – and that despite the fact that they were ganging up on him. Couldn't manage the guts to face him one on one.

He was the best!

Not even that supposedly unbeatable, legendary Guardian Force Odin they'd somehow got their hands on had been a match for him: the Zantetsuken Reverse he'd spent hours upon hours perfecting had sliced it in half.

He was the _best_.

It hadn't mattered.

His friends had turned their backs on him, the Sorceress he'd sworn himself to had thrown him away like trash... even his rival had barely spared him a glance... he'd got some pity from the gals... _pity!_... nothing more.

He deserved better than that! Didn't he?

Didn't he?

All he'd ever wanted was to be a Sorceress' Knight… it was his romantic dream… what was wrong with it? How could it have turned out so badly?

He wanted to be accepted… needed… he wanted glory, respect, but also love… he'd thought Edea could give him that… but it had turned out all wrong…

That was when Harry had found him, at his lowest.

And unexpectedly, unbelievably, had offered him a chance at the real deal – not the empty promises of the Sorceress, but the true bond of a Protector to a Lord.

Sometimes Seifer wondered why he had.

What could possibly have pushed the little Summoner to choose him? A Guardian was someone a Summoner could rely on completely. Someone they could trust with their life. Sometimes he wondered, how could Harry feel like that about him?

They were only a couple dozen meters into the ancient forest when Itachi's soft voice halted them.

The lean teenager's eyes were taking in the trees, not in the least wary, but nevertheless with an alertness that Seifer wasn't feeling the need for. It immediately put him on guard. It was clear by the unusual relaxation in his attitude that Stoic Kid was at home in a forest, much more than his fellow Guardians. He must have noticed something Seifer missed.

He nodded in acceptance when Itachi slid quietly forward, taking point, and with no need for words traded places with Scar, covering the rearguard, while the white-haired man stood by the Summoner.

At least Scarface seemed back to normal today, not out of sorts like the day before.

Seifer had barely managed to enjoy the admiring looks of his fangirls, because he couldn't afford even an instant of distraction, not if his fellow Guardian wasn't one hundred percent functional. He would have liked a chance to show off for once, thank you very much!

He looked good and he knew it; once upon a time, he would have made it a point to pose so that the sun shone off his gunblade and he appeared to his advantage to the giggling girls, and smirk at the gossiping students, basking in how they were all awe-struck at the sight of him, be it in fear or in lovesick-puppy-style.

Heh, he was awesome!

But no – Scarface had been spooked and unbalanced, so he'd had to sacrifice the cool look and forgo the chance of preening in favour of being able to keep an eye on things.

Of course, he'd found himself doing things like this like it was natural ever since he'd started travelling with Harry, somewhat to his surprise. After all, the little Summoner was... important.

Still, it was good to see Scarface wasn't as distracted today.

He wondered what had been wrong with him the day before. Scared of the ghosts, maybe? He'd certainly looked unnerved by the things. Heh, the loser. Seifer wasn't bothered by the spirits of course – he might find them unsettling, but that was because they _were_, duh.

Itachi paused for a long moment, breathing in the silent atmosphere thrumming with power.

Then he took one step forward and to Seifer's shock, the forest _moved_.

Trees and bushes blurred and stirred, morphing in front of their very eyes: slowly but seamlessly two diverging paths took form, a winding trail towards the left and a straighter one towards the right.

Heh. Cool effect.

A bit unnerving – never had he heard that a forest could do this kind of thing – but cool.

Good thing Scarface and Stoic Kid didn't seem bothered at all, though. These moving trees were worse than ghosts by far, in his opinion; for a moment he'd feared Scar might be upset again. Thankfully, his fellow Guardians both seemed alright.

In fact, Itachi almost looked at ease. Serene. Tranquil.

Weird.

Harry considered the paths for a long moment, then pointed his Rod toward the left and they moved that way, Itachi scouting the way, maintaining them on track through the twisting and wiggling, writhing and morphing of the vegetation.

Stoic Kid seemed to be born in a forest, he moved with such simpleness and could instantly interpret every sign of their surroundings as if it was his mother language.

Seifer was left to follow the group, mind hastily reviewing what he'd learned back at Garden about forest-dwelling monsters. Chances were these world had different ones, but you never knew: the similar environment might well have pushed their evolution along similar paths.

Besides it distracted him by the fact that he was trailing behind. He really didn't like taking up the rear. Oh, he did it without complaints when it was his turn – he was a _professional,_ he didn't care what the damn SEEDs examiners had thought, bunch of losers that they were – but it sort of made him uneasy.

After all, he'd been left behind before.

And really, why was Harry even bothering with him? When it came right down to it?

He might throw his bravado around like he had an endless supply of self-confidence to draw upon, but deep down the doubts stayed. He was a failure... a reject... what if his Summoner suddenly wised up and discarded him, like the others before him?

Harry turned a little to look at him over his shoulder while they walked and smiled. He flashed his trademark grin back, knowing Harry loved it. His Summoner had told him so himself, one night when Seifer was having uncharacteristically manifest self-doubts.

Well, who wouldn't? Really?

Harry was _special_ – he had the power, strength of will and determination to change the world to suit his vision and the morals and enthusiasm to want it changed for the better of all. People of his kind rarely graced a world.

And Seifer… well. When he came right down to it, he wasn't exactly a good person. Or a very reliable one.

He'd done awful things. He was very careful to keep those from Harry; he wasn't sure how his Summoner would react. Maybe he sort of already knew. Maybe he wouldn't mind. But... maybe he would. Stoic Kid knew… the expressionless teen might well have done stuff just as awful; he would get this look at times… they didn't need to talk about any of it. They just knew, saw the understanding in each other's eyes. And Scarhead… yeah… Seifer'd ended up telling him most of everything. In disjointed random bouts that sort of sneaked up on him. He always felt better afterwards; mortified but lighter. Besides the man never judged him. Not for his acts of cruelty, not for his moments of stupidity, not for any weakness he might confess. He just listened.

It helped.

That didn't change the fact that Seifer wasn't sure that he deserved to be one of Harry's Chosen, no matter how many times the green-eyed Summoner reassured him.

He wanted to be – no doubts on this. It was his chance of redemption. Of doing things right this time! But... Why should he get such a chance at all? Why would the little Summoner even want him around?

Harry's answer that one time he'd blurted out the question that was plaguing him had been sweetly candid: "I like you, Seifer. You're a great friend… you're smart, you're bold and always so full of confidence. Nothing ever gets you down. It's like nothing is impossible to you. Just by talking to you, I feel like I could take on the world!"

That totally bolstered Seifer's spirits. Being bold and brash and a source of inspiration? Oh yeah, he could _do _that. Just like with his posse, back at Garden, right? He _totally_ could – and if that was enough for his Summoner, then all was well. So long as it lasted.

Sometimes Seifer wondered why in Hyne's name Harry had picked him of all people. Sometimes he wondered how long he would have before he'd be told that there had been a mistake, that he wasn't supposed to be a Guardian after all.

Then Harry would grin at him and he'd remember that he was, indeed, _wanted_. And worthy of it.

It was this unspoken-of complicity that made his relationship with Harry so important, so _special_. Although they'd been off to a bit of a rocky start...

He remembered well how he'd felt lying there in the Lunatic Pandora, broken and desolate at last, his body bruised, his spirit crushed. Nothing left to cling to.

The Sorceress he'd offered himself to long gone, not one thought spared for him, who was supposed to be her Knight, who had once been her child: only cruel indifference.

His friends, his supporters, his posse, who he'd once thought would always be by his side, gone too, picking the sullen Ice Princeling over him, and hadn't that hurt! That after years of being together, of sharing everything, they would pick his rival, his enemy even! Just like Rinoa. Or his pseudo-sisters from back at the Orphanage – all of them ignoring him or only giving him pitying, disappointed looks!

That galled even now, in memories.

He wasn't a disappointment. Whatever else, he wasn't that!

He had made his decision with his eyes wide open and he had given his best to everything he'd chosen to do. Everything he'd chosen to be. He had followed his dream and put all his effort in achieving it. That the dream had been crushed didn't mean a thing.

He had no regrets, save to have misjudged who was worthy of his trust.

Yet no-one had understood him in the least.

They had all left... gone... and in the end, that thrice-damned example of improbability wrapped in a red turban-cloak had destroyed even the last thing he had left, his pride as a warrior, treating him like he was nothing more than a useless rag doll, to be thrown in the trash. That awful absurdity with too many arms had shown up from a bloody rift in space/time, blathered some ridiculous nonsense about 'the Fourth' and defeated him. Defeated! Him!

He could only thank his lucky star that Harry had been passing by right at that time. On his own, he might not have managed to get himself up again.

He wasn't sure when the boy and his companions had arrived. He'd been drifting in and out of consciousness, his wounds taking their toll and his beaten spirit uncharacteristically wallowing in self-pity.

A whitish haze had enveloped him, that much he remembered, and he'd felt the same pleasantly tingling sensation of when a Cure swept through his body, though the magic had felt livelier and fresher than the standard spells.

He'd recovered his full senses to see a green-eyed teen, with a cerulean outfit full of little ornaments, orange goggles pushed up in his dark hair and a tall metallic Ron in his hands, kneeling by his side; behind him, an unlikely pair: a tall man with white hair, oval sunglasses and a huge scar across his forehead and a younger bloke with onyx eyes framed by black bangs and the kind of emotionally stunted expression Seifer had come to expect from Icy Squally.

He'd stared at them as he heaved himself to a sitting position; and then he'd been absolutely flabbergasted by the kneeling teen holding up a copy of _Occult Fan _and asking brightly: "Would you happen to know where the Grandidi Forest is? It says here it should be in these parts, or at least on this continent, we think..."

"You don't actually believe that rubbish, do you? There's no way anything printed in that lunatic rag is true," had blurted out Seifer, regardless of the absurdity of the meeting (to this day, he didn't know how they'd entered the Lunatic Pandora at all, never mind why).

"Huh..." the teen had blinked, then beamed a little forcedly: "Anyway! We're looking for this... Guardian Force, is it called?... so if you have any indications, we would be most grateful! By the way, my name's Harry," he'd added almost as an afterthought.

"Seifer," he had replied on autopilot, vaguely weirded out by the whole situation.

The odd boy had beamed brightly: "Nice to meet you, Seifer! So, do you know where we can find this?"

Some part of him had wondered if the oddness of it all and his own somewhat dazed reaction meant this wasn't happening after all – maybe he was delirious or something – but before he could ponder on it, a whole lot of mechanical noise had exploded all around them as one of Galbadia's living weapon had jumped on them and started shooting randomly.

It was a dark green monster with lethal claws and yellow fangs, standing on its hind legs to support a 155mm autocannon on both shoulders.

The two silent ones had instantly moved to cover the still kneeling kid, acting with the smoothness of trained bodyguards – a corner of Seifer's mind had recognized the positions that had been drilled into him at Garden and distantly appreciated their professionalism. At the same time, he had reflexively identified the foe and recalled what he knew about it, his heavy disbelief at the whole thing making him feel rather detached, and had commented blandly: "A SAM08G. It will have to resort to a charge move before being able to blast us. Thunder attacks will work well."

Hearing his information, the kid with the blank expression had promptly moved his hands in a flowing, lightning-fast sequence of positions that vaguely reminded Seifer of the copper-haired Messenger Girl's magic attacks. Though she used her nunchaku, of course.

He had registered the details without much thought, still feeling detached and rather unconcerned, the strangeness of the situation making everything seem a little more distant than normal; then he'd felt the charge building for the attack and before he could figure out what he was about to do, he'd already sprung to his feet and let lose a Thundara that mingled with the dark-haired kid's unusual spell, plunging into the cannon-wielding monster with a devastating shock.

Seifer had barely had the time to blink at his own actions – he figured he'd been simply too used to fighting to not take part in a combat situation, _any_ combat situation: it was the only explanation – before the improbability level of the whole situation had been bumped up to ridiculous levels by the sudden reappearance of the red-clad multiarmed menace.

Four swords had fallen from the sky, startling them, and embedded themselves in the ground all around them, quivering with the force of the strikes. Then the blighter had been there, rising from a crouch on the ground and attempting to look inscrutable.

Seen up close, he had a grey complexion that made him seem like he had been dead for a long time before being brought back to life. No wonder he covered the majority of his face with that tattered red scarf. And used make-up for the rest: red paint ran in stripes under his eyes, like tears of blood against his grey skin. Not that it did much to help his looks, in Seifer's opinion.

Then the weird guy had grabbed the closest sword and slashed so violently with it, that Seifer had had the impression that the whole world had been sliced in half by a white-blue cut. It had lasted a long instant, then disappeared, leaving the monster in neatly cut halves.

Suddenly and surprisingly, the figure had leapt up once more, spinning gracefully and then landing next to them, allowing Seifer to get a proper look at the towering build and at the sets of demonic looking horns sticking out from his head. He had drawn himself to his full height, obviously gearing up to some outlandish proclamation or other, but Seifer had never been one to appreciate dramatics. Unless, that is, _he_ was the one indulging in them.

So he'd promptly diverted everybody's attention by yelling at the monstrosity in red: "YOU again! What the hell are you doing here!"

A furious hiss had escaped the sword-wielder: "What? You! My introduction! I can't believe you ruined it! You'll pay for that!"

Seifer's reaction had been, predictably, to slash air with his gunblade – always a comfort – and scoff: "Just who do you think you are, anyway?"

"Who am I?" The red swordsman had questioned quietly, then his head had shot up. "WHO AM I? Fool! I am the mightiest of mighty swordsmen! Mine is the vigour of a great tempest! My strength once decimated an entire army! My enemies fear my name, and the Gods tremble at my power!"

"Bah," had muttered Seifer, irritated. Listening to someone he didn't like going on blathering about their own greatness was _boring._

"Hear my name now for I am GILGAMESH!"

Seifer had snorted, none too discreetly.

"Fool!" had reiterated the supposedly mighty warrior, hissing, then he'd returned to his position in front of the green-eyed kid who was still clutching the rolled up magazine and watching everything with a slightly perplexed, hesitant smile.

"I am Gilgamesh," he had repeated, making his voice a lot more mysterious than when he'd yelled at Seifer, "I am the Wandering Hero of the Void! I had planned to keep an eye on the Walker of Times and his companions, but this! This is much more interesting!" he had proclaimed in a bellowing voice, holding out his hands as if to encompass the three strangers.

"Walker of Times?" had asked the kid, looking confused, but apparently Gilgamesh had been too taken up in his own rant to pay attention: "_So_ very interesting!"

Seifer had quickly lost whatever shade of patience he might have had. He'd never liked being ignored – so sue him! "WHAT is interesting, you overgrown improbability?" he'd demanded nastily.

The red-clad warrior had promptly abandoned his inspired pose in favour of scowling at him. Again. "You nuisance! Do you not see? This is a TRUE Summoner!"

That had been less helpful than one of Quistis' lectures, which was saying everything, really.

"A what?" had muttered Seifer, glancing uncertainly at the odd kid and his silent bodyguards. They hadn't looked surprised at the declaration. It had done very little to quench the edginess Seifer could feel rising inside.

"I have travelled through more dimensions than I care to remember and I've seen a lot of astounding sights, but this! This is _so_ interesting!" Gilgamesh had blathered on.

The so-proclaimed Summoner in question had frown interestedly at this and taken a few steps toward the red-clad annoyance, his two bodyguards hovering protectively close to him.

"Excuse me, but... did you say that you travel through dimensions?" he'd asked politely.

"Of course! I use the portals in the Rift to seek out and collect my rare and powerful swords!" He'd immediately started showing off – much to Seifer's grumbled disgust – a veritable arsenal of rare and powerful blades.

Some time after the third, the part of Seifer's brain that was shouting about the illogicality and insanity of it all had abruptly shut up and he'd defaulted to what he always did when he felt profoundly uneasy - namely, ignore anything that was disturbing him and proceed to bluff himself into the centre of attention.

"So what, exactly, is a Summoner?" he'd asked pleasantly enough, taking out his own, magnificent blade in an apparently careless way and swinging it casually under everybody's eyes, to make sure it attracted the proper amount of attention. Which it did, of course. His Hyperion was as awesome as its master: after all, it was a custom model of his own design.

Nobody had commented on it however. Gilgamesh had just scoffed disgustedly at him, while the odd kid had, somewhat succinctly, explained: "Summoners, well... we are practitioners of a peculiar kind of magic... trained in summoning powerful beings known as Aeons, calling them to our aid. We have other duties, but... that's the gist of it."

Ah, so that was why he was looking for the Grandidi Forest. He was after the GF rumoured to dwell there. Well, Seifer could understand that.

"So you're a Summoner, then?" he had asked, just to be clear, and he'd gotten a firm nod in response. He'd shrugged: "Oo-kay." No skin off his nose, really. "That why you want the GF, I suppose?" he had tossed out, truthfully more concerned with nonchalantly pushing his gunblade under the red menace's grumpy nose than with whatever the kid would say.

"What? You want to drag the Guardian Force into service?" had grumbled Gilgamesh, _still_ ignoring his gunblade, the tosser. "Not going to work. Hah! Your power has led you to arrogance!..."

"You're one to talk," had snorted Seifer.

The kid had frowned, displeased: "It's not like that..."

Seifer had raised an eyebrow at him: "Wait, you don't want the GF? Riiight... Why are you looking for it, then?"

The Summoner had sighed exasperatedly: "Look, I'm not even sure of what a GF _is, _ok? Only... if what I've found out is right, they seem to have a lot in common with Aeons and so I was wondering if maybe my next Trial might be in connection with one of them..."

Now, Seifer had not understood much of this, especially the part about trials, but since that irritating Gilgamesh had now been scoffing dismissively at the Summoner, he'd instantly decided to take the kid's parts. Only logical, really. Enemy of my enemy – wasn't there a saying about this?

So he'd generously launched into the standard definition Garden had drummed into his head, purely to be helpful: "Well, a GF is an independent energy force, which has no solid form and can only manifest for limited periods of time," he'd informed the strange kid. "By combining it with para-magic, it is possible to control tremendous energy. That's called junctioning and when a GF is junctioned to a human, they give superhuman strength and enhance the users' body functions."

Hah, and to think the idiotic examiners had barely passed him. He'd been about to point out the memory loss risk business, but he'd been rudely interrupted.

"WHAT?" had come a bellow from the red-clad warrior.

Seifer had eye-balled him: "I said that..."

"Ignorant boy!" had thundered Gilgamesh.

Seifer's brow had twitched in irritation. "I am not a BOY!"

Of course, the damn improbability had completely ignored him: "Do you know nothing? Guardian Forces are what cast-off Aeons are reduced to! And Aeons are Guardian Forces who haven't been discarded by their lieges!"

Everybody – Seifer was _very _pleased to remember he hadn't been the only one – had goggled at the towering warrior.

"What... what do you mean, exactly?" had asked the Summoner kid.

Gilgamesh had looked at them with a put-upon sigh: "A Summoner's Guardian – or a Sorceress' Knight, or a Patriarch's Protector – can be turned into an Aeon. Don't ask me how. I have no idea. But that's what happens."

"Guardian?" had blurted out Seifer, truthfully shocked at the idea that something _else_ like a Sorceress' Knight could exist.

"That would be us," had briefly commented the tall, scarred guy, barely sparing Seifer a glance.

Gilgamesh had just blathered on obliviously: "They acquire the powers of an Aeon and retain their duty, the impulse to protect their bonded human. Eventually the Summoner dies, but Aeons are eternal unless they are killed… Same for a Sorceress Knight, if she dies before him, why, just think about Griever…"

"But how is this possible?" had asked the kid, looking at once avid for information and dismayed by it.

"I just said I DON'T KNOW!" had raged the annoying warrior. "They have a bond with their liege in life, don't they? _You _should know better than me! But I've seen it happen! They loose something of themselves and are lost, wandering, and if their bonded didn't ensure they would have a task beyond his or her death, why, that's how they become Guardian Forces!… They're... they're Unsent! Unsent that acquire fiendish looks but are still driven by their need to protect…"

He'd crossed his arms petulantly: "_Everybody_ knows that!"

"Well, I didn't," had replied the kid with a thoughtful look.

Gilgamesh had leaned down to give him a long look into the eyes: "Clearly, you haven't found the answers you need yet, young Summoner." He'd stood up. "You won't find them in the Grandidi Forest either," he'd declared smugly.

The kid had blinked, then asked – far too politely in Seifer's opinion: "Then... can you tell me where to find what I'm looking for?"

"No," had been the blunt answer.

Faced with the taken aback expression of the Summoner, Gilgamesh had quickly added, sounding apologetic: "A Summoner is shaped by his Pilgrimage. You must follow the tug of your magic, young Lord, it will lead you to where you need to go. If I were to simply disclose the answers to you, you would be diminished by my interference…"

The kid had nodded understandingly. Seifer, for his part, had not bothered to hide his snort. That irritating, self-righteous... urgh.

The annoying entity had wrapped his red cape around himself with an over-dramatic flourish and boomed some nonsense about needing to leave 'post haste'. And he'd vanished on the spot.

They'd all been rather stunned after his abrupt departure. Seifer's head had been fuzzy and he'd vaguely reflected about the blessedness of silence.

The taller bodyguard had been the first to recover: "So, what now?"

The Summoner had blinked, mind clearly still on the red-clad absurdity, then shrugged: "Oh, I suppose we'll just continue our journey."

Then he'd turned to Seifer, all perky: "So, are you coming with us?"

"'Course I am," he'd answered impulsively.

And that had been that.

To this very day, Seifer couldn't tell what on earth had pushed him to accept that obviously unpremeditated offer…

Mind you, he was glad he had.

Even as they were still walking out of the Lunatic Pandora, the kid with no expression in the lead and the scarred guy as rearguard, he'd mulled over the idea and liked it. A Summoner was like a Sorceress, right? That was what he'd gathered from the odd conversation, at least. So... his romantic dream was not beyond reach after all! He'd be a Guardian instead of a Knight… it wasn't that different.

Except that it was, because Harry wasn't using him, wasn't manipulating him like Edea had, Harry was _worthy_ of being knighted for!

But that, he'd only learned later.

At the time, all he'd known was that a vague sort of _rightness_ justified his decision. Besides, no-one had argued. There had been just... acceptance. In hindsight, it was truly mind-boggling.

The very first half-hour had set the tone for the easiness among them. Because of course, even after they'd sort of dealt with the crazy sword-obsessed annoyance and somehow sorted out the most basic details of Seifer's addition to the odd party, things had been rather awkward at first.

Seifer hated awkward.

Good thing the kid had managed to break the ice quite soon.

"So… uhm… cool sword," Harry had said a little tentatively.

Seifer, already on edge in the unsettling set of events, had exploded: "Sword!... why, you!... How _dare _you! This _baby _is a GUNBLADE!"

"A… what?"

Seifer had closed his eyes, praying for patience. Really, he'd reminded himself. The kid believed the _Occult Fan_ stuff. Something had obviously gone wrong in his upraising. Couldn't be blamed for ignorance. He should be gracious and explain instead.

So he'd done just that, showing off his _amazing_ Hyperion – the gun action built into the hilt, the barrel running inside the length of the blade, the carefully shaped sword blade, even demonstrating the shock wave that triggering a round sent through the blade to increase damage.

All his annoyance had vanished when he'd seen the spark of awe in the Summoner's eyes. Oh, yeah… the kid did understand. He wasn't a bad sort, really. He just needed a few things explained. Luckily, Seifer was there to take him in hand… it was his inner generosity pushing him, no doubt…

And luckily, every interaction with Harry after that had been just as easy. And just as rewarding.

The other two had been tougher nuts to crack, but little by little he'd managed to get to know his fellow Guardians too. He'd soon found his unexpected companions growing on him like he'd never believed anyone could.

Really, it was practically uncanny how _easily_ they all fit together. How they barely even had a need to say anything at all – well, Seifer talked a lot, of course, but that's because he liked the sound of his own voice, and it wasn't like there was anything wrong with it, no matter how other people made it sound; but he seldom needed his companions to verbalize their contributions to the conversation. And silences among them were never awkward or stilted: they were just natural. Their combat styles might as well have been devised for their cooperation, so well they meshed together; their general tastes, no matter the inevitable differences, ran on parallel and often close tracks; and on the serious stuff – like, say, protecting Harry – they were remarkably like-minded.

Yes, Seifer had very quickly come to admit that he was _happy_ with the other three.

Besides, it had been pretty clear that they needed him. Badly. Especially the little Summoner. Almost fifteen and he barely had a clue what fun was! The solemn gloominess of the other two had clearly ruined him.

Honestly! Too serious by half.

Stoic Kid was a workaholic that probably had completely missed the lesson on what fun even was. A clear example? When Harry'd innocently admitted that he didn't know how to swim and Seifer, of course, had offered to teach the kid – because swimming was great fun! – what had been Stoic Kid's comment? "It would possibly be beneficial for him to be able to survive in the chance that he falls into water."

Hyne, can you say 'overachiever'? It was something Icy Princeling Squally might have said…

As for Scarface, he did nothing but mope about, all serious and obsessed. Well, they all had their problems, didn't they, wasn't a good reason to go around as if they were mourning!

Seifer had guessed pretty soon that it was up to him to make sure Harry had some fun. So, he'd taken up the task of lightening the kid's life up. He rather liked it too. His memories of the Orphanage were still rather vague, but he kind of remembered that most children there had been older than him. Or total wimps. Now he got to be the cool older brother to a little brother who was fun and caring and smart. It felt _good_!

They'd started travelling around his world looking for... something (he hadn't been clear on the matter back then). Good thing he had had excellent marks in Geography. And that they all, perhaps surprisingly, loved sailing.

He'd sort of kept an eye on Squally's progress – the ragtags were travelling around a lot too – but slowly had come to realize that he cared more for his new companions' opinion than his past classmates'.

Seifer was abruptly jolted out of his memories by a huge spider falling upon him from a high branch. And by huge he meant dragon-sized. The damn thing was as big as the robot that had chased them that time in Dollet!

He recovered from his stumble in a moment and helped Itachi make quick work of it, but the unsettling clicking from above them clued him in to the fact that the spider had family around. And he couldn't even burn them all to a crisp. Damn forest.

At least the dark shapes seemed cautious and wary of approaching. If they just let them be, Seifer might feel generous enough not to go out of his way to destroy them after all.

The twisting trees were taking on more definite pathways now. Maybe they were realizing that the Summoner's Rod would lead them unerringly and there really wasn't a point in creating a maze. Or maybe the forest wasn't sentient after all and it was all just random.

Either worked for Seifer, as long as they got to the Cloister of Trials soon, because if his modest experience was anything to go by, they'd be in there for a very long time.

Hyne, he hoped this Cloister wouldn't be as frustrating as the last one!

When they'd at last found the cursed place (and who would have guessed the members of the supposedly lost Deep Sea Research Center facility had found and tried to investigate such a place? He should have sent an article about it to the _Occult Fan_... just for the hell of it!)... it had turned out to be a labyrinth so convoluted it had been hopeless to try and keep track of its complexity, with walls that were all alike – same colour, same height, same width; anonymous staircases that kept shifting; impossible connections defying the laws of perspective!

It had been an exercise in patience. Seifer had felt his temper – always short even at the best of times – build like steam under pressure as they were slowly being drawn in and swallowed by the gloriously illogical spaces. They'd walked for miles, he swore, along seemingly interchangeable corridors, and gained about fifty meters in a straight line. If that. Nightmarish!

Then there had been a number of barriers – some physical, some magical, a couple even illusionary, letting their minds work against them... urgh!

He still wasn't sure the Aeon had been worth it. Sure it could defend from anything, literally _anything_, but it was damn slow and looked ridiculous. Like a cross between a heavily-armoured adamantoise and a pink armadillo.

He shook his head to clear it of the remembered frustration just as Stoic Kid stopped them and pointed at something further away, in the midst of all the greens and blacks and flickering rays of filtered sunshine playing at the very edge of their sight.

Getting closer, they admired in slight awe the majestic tree, that despite not being taller than those around it, was at least three times as large. Its bark was cracked and full of knobs and ridges: perfect for climbing, as were the thick, solid branches that spread out rather than up, circling upon themselves and around others and at times twining around nearby trunks, like fond arms encircling friendly waists.

It was the matter of moments to find the staircase carved – magically most likely – inside the amazing trunk and plunging downwards into the rich, moist soil.

It led them to an underground circular room from which four chapel-like spaces branched out. They were all identical in size and shape: only the décor varied. The colour scheme was simple and primary: green with a touch of silver for the one on their right, red and gold for the one opposite it, a deep, royal blue with bronze finishing before them and behind them a cheery yellow with onyx black touches. Drawing closer, their attention was caught by the amazingly detailed and refined bas-reliefs that covered the lower parts of the walls, intricate carvings of flora and fauna framing what Seifer assumed were scenes of past or myth.

They contemplated the beautiful works in silence for a little while, each wandering, and wondering, by themselves, until suddenly Harry exclaimed: "I know this one!"

He was examining the lower frieze in the blue and bronze chapel, bending to run his fingers lightly on a sequence of plant-like carvings: "Powdered griffin claw... shredded dittany ... here's a fire... and this looks like a woman stirring a concoction... and here, look, she's pouring something... it's the instructions on how to create a Strengthening Elixir!"

They blinked.

"Why would such a recipe be the central theme of a decoration?" wondered Scar.

Seifer shrugged, but Stoic Kid, typically, took the question seriously and bent to examine more closely the bas-reliefs in the green-and-silver area, where he was standing: "This frieze, too, seems to be comprised of instructions," he called out. "Although it appears to be centred on the Transformation Technique rather than any alchemic recipe..."

They all walked up to him and, indeed, saw the representation of a man slowly changing into a clawed bird.

"Could you do that?" asked Seifer with undisguised curiosity, because Itachi's ability to change his appearance was truly amazing and not a little dumbfounding.

He got a distracted nod in answer, and after a moment the dark-haired teen mused aloud: "I suppose that, this being a school that teaches such subjects, the choice of portraying lessons in place of the more traditional battles or feasts or other epics might be understood."

"This isn't the school proper, though," objected Harry. "This is a Cloister of Trials. I doubt there would be something here not connected to the task we're supposed to complete."

Scar frowned: "What are you thinking, then?"

"That these might be clues," replied Harry matter-of-factly.

Seifer sighed, put-upon. Labyrinths were bad, but puzzles? Puzzles were even worse. Why couldn't they be facing a simple, straightforward, satisfying battle?

Bored, he crossed his arms and let his back fall with a soft thump against the nearest wall.

Something clicked.

Everybody froze.

Wide-eyed, Seifer pushed himself up and turned to see that a thin section of stone had sunk and recessed into the wall. A low rumble from the middle of the central room made him spin again and he all but groaned. Of all the stupid things to do... how could he have triggered a trap!

Only, it looked like it wasn't a trap after all. They'd instantly grabbed their weapons and readied themselves for a battle, but nothing of the sort happened. Where the rumble had originated, a slim, elegant silver mirror was raising from the floor with quiet grace. Once it was completely out of the ground, it stopped. The rumble died away.

Nothing else happened.

After a while, they relaxed somewhat.

"I guess we're on the right track," commented Harry, cautiously nearing the beautiful mirror. "It looks like a perfectly normal mirror, though," he added after examining it closely. "What do you think we're supposed to do?"

"Hmm..." frowned Scar. He examined the wall section Seifer had accidentally pushed, then marched off to the blue and bronze area once more, scanning the wall there. "Here," he declared with satisfaction after a moment, and put his shoulder to another section of the wall, sinking it into the surrounding stone.

The rumble started up again and this time it was a slim pillar with spiralling carvings that rose from the floor, supporting a silver bowl.

Once again, nothing more happened.

Harry moved closer to the bowl and ran his fingers lightly on its geometric etchings. "Right..." he murmured. "Obviously we must trigger the other two items as well. And considering what these are and where..." he trailed off, glancing speculatively at the instructions carved in the walls.

Itachi nodded: "Logically thinking, the correct transformation must be performed in front of the mirror and the correct concoction must be put into this container to activate... something..." his voice, that had started out with his usual quiet confidence, ended on an uncertain note that was quite unlike him.

Seifer snorted good-naturedly.

Harry, however, was nodding enthusiastically: "Precisely what I was thinking." He rummaged into his belt quickly, a little frown of concentration on his forehead.

As usual, Seifer spared an envious thought for the incredible accessory. It might look like a simple, boring leather belt, but the slim pockets sewn into it were _at least_ three times larger than their outside dimensions and regardless of what Harry stuffed inside them, the weight of the thing didn't increase. He wanted one like it, dammit! Luckily, Harry had promised to get his 'Uncle O'aka' to find one for Seifer 'once he got back', so there was hope.

"Aha!" cried Harry triumphantly. He quickly spread out on the floor an impressive array of odds and ends. "I can do this! Yes... I have everything I need! Well... not using that recipe, actually..." he waved carelessly at the blue and bronze walls, "but I can synthesize the griffin claw from animal glue and coeurl bones, and use roots of burning bush instead of dittany if I mix them with lemon leaves... the result should be the same!"

"Should?" asked Scarface-the-Worrier sharply.

"Will," retorted Harry with a stubborn scowl.

"Alright," was Itachi's predictable acceptance. "We'll keep watch."

"Speak for yourself!" retorted Seifer at once. "It'll probably take him ages, you know how it is with his Alchemy, and I'm already bored. Besides, it's not like it takes all of us for it. You keep watch... I'll have a look around!"

He wasn't surprised when Stoic Kid glared, irritated, but Scarface put a stop to whatever row might have broken out: "Seifer's right, there doesn't seem to be any danger here yet, so you're more than enough to watch over Harry. We should try and figure out the other two chapels in the meantime."

Satisfied, Seifer stalked off with a dramatic twirl and walked purposefully towards the yellow-and-black space for all of five steps before catching a good look at what was carved there and turning sharply for the other option. Languages and ideograms had never been his thing – he'd positively hated those useless classes back at Garden – and that stuff looked entirely too much like the horrid runes that had given him a headache and a half when he'd had to try and figure out the Lunatic Pandora shields – which hadn't withstood a simple airship crashing into them anyway, he might add.

No, magic scribblings weren't his things.

The red-and-gold chamber, on the other hand, immediately caught his fancy. The bas-reliefs on the walls looked like the kind of magic – or rather, para-magic – he'd always known: proudly displayed images he could liken to the effects of holy and thunder spells, little pictures of various shields, even what looked like Quistis' annoying Sonic Waves...

The biggest, central figure was a man who'd clearly cast Float on himself, judging by the way he was hovering above the line of the ground, with a hand outstretched in what could only be the motion of thrusting projectiles. Fireballs, judging by the flames that were enveloping his target.

Grinning, Seifer sought out the stone panel to the side and with yet another rumble, a silver target with a double bullseye rose from the ground.

Not one for waiting, or thinking things through, Seifer twirled, made himself levitate, grinning, and shot a fireball at the thing, hitting it dead centre. Startled shouts burst forth from his friends, almost instantly morphing in peeved epithets.

The target flared with pure white light for a long moment, than faded and sunk back into the ground slowly. Just as slowly, the chapel-like room behind Seifer lit up with suffused light, that rose gently from the floor and pervaded the walls, emanating from the very stone they were made of. When it was all illuminated, it grew brighter and brighter, until it reminded Seifer of the neon street-lights in Deling City. It took a few, long seconds, and then a bundle of white beams shot out towards the place where the target had stood.

And then all was still and silent.

After a long moment of tension, the other three exhaled loudly.

"For pity's sake, Seifer! Warn us next time, would you!" exclaimed a very exasperated Harry, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, some sort of pot before him; the knife he was clenching was dangerously rattling against the floor where he'd let his trembling hand fall.

"What _is _it with you today!" hissed Stoic Kid, whose grumblings, if Seifer was not mistaken, were yet to finish calling him seven kinds of idiots. It wasn't very easy to tell, though, because they mingled with Scarhead's rant: "What on earth were you thinking! Scratch that, you obviously weren't... thinking that is! Of all the moronic, thoughtless, reckless..."

Seifer grinned, unrepentant: "Oops?" and dispelled the Float, falling back onto the ground with a light thud.

"What if your actions had triggered a trap, or a battle?" snapped Stoic Kid, looking furious.

"Ehm... am I supposed to think that'd be a bad thing?" asked Seifer cheekily.

Harry rolled his eyes at him and went back to his crushed leaves.

"Oh, come on," whined Seifer, "it's pretty clear that nothing's going to happen until we activate all four of the things. I was just speeding things along!"

"And what if you'd startled Harry into cutting off his fingers? Hm?"snarled Scarhead.

That gave Seifer pause. His smile vanishing, he opened his mouth to apologize, but was cut off: "Don't. No, I mean it. Don't say a word. Don't do anything. In fact, go sit there and. Do. Not. Move," growled Scar pointing to an out-of-the-way corner.

Huffing, Seifer obeyed.

"I think I might as well get on with it, too" sighed Itachi and positioned himself in front of the silver mirror.

Almost too fast for the eye to follow, his hands flew through familiar motions and an instant later he vanished into a puff of white smoke, leaving in his place only a sleek, black bird. Seifer sighed in envy. To be able to that would be really something!

Just like the target, the mirror flared with light and then it dimmed and settled into the floor, while the green-and-silver area lit up, the intensity of the light brightening until the expected beams shot out and went to mingle with the ones coming from the opposite direction.

Scarhead went back to the yellow-and-black chapel and found the stone panel, which provoked the rumbling rise of a huge silver cylinder that seemed to be made of piled disks, each carved with several symbols. A few moment's fiddling proved that they could be rotated individually, so that they could be aligned to form different combinations.

"Enciphered array," muttered Scarface almost within himself.

Curious, Seifer started to rise, but a furious glare froze him in mid-motion. Scowling, he sank back on the floor and crossed his arms with a petulant huff.

Companionable silence spread over them as Harry went on mixing and stirring and Scar studied the cylinder carefully, occasionally glancing back to the frieze in the chapel behind him.

Seifer fidgeted, bored. Then he fidgeted some more. Then he decided to try and figure out if he could make Stoic Kid fidget, somehow. He couldn't.

Finally – finally! – Scarface decided he'd got the right combination and gently manipulated the disks into a specific position. With a by now familiar glow, the cylinder sank back into the ground and the chapel lit up, until a third beam joined the first two in a cross-like shape.

Shortly after that, Harry smiled brightly from the other side of the room: "Alright! I'm done here. Everybody ready?"

Seifer jumped to his feet and bounced a little in place to warm up, arms rising above his head in a stretch: "'Course we are!" he exclaimed eagerly.

More sedate nods came from the other two Guardians and they readied themselves around Harry, who stepped up to the etched bowl, carefully pouring what he'd got from his messing about with his powders and oozes in it.

When the beams from the fourth chapel joined the others in the middle, the light got suddenly even brighter, to the point of being unbearable, then coalesced in the middle of the room and they barely had the time to realize what was about to happen and shield their eyes before it exploded into a blinding glare.

It slowly dissipated, leaving dancing spots before their vision, and when they could see somewhat properly again, there was a little creature of vaguely humanoid appearance in front of them.

Its skin was so black it seemed made of condensed night and it was wrapped unbecomingly in a far too big and bulky blue cloak; it wore a floppy, pointy hat, a bit too large for its head, with an enormous brim that further obscured its face and made its very yellow eyes glow in contrast to the shade it cast. The small creature couldn't be taller than three feet and definitely looked ill-suited to wielding any kind of weapons, not even the puny dagger it held close to its chest.

It bounced in place a few time, looking like an eager puppy, and _squeaked_.

Seifer burst out laughing.

The creature's attention turned to him and it stretched a black hand towards the ceiling. Above its head, tendrils of cloudy darkness appeared and gathered in a spinning vortex that quickly condensed into a ball, wiping the smile off Seifer's face. Before he could react, the orb of darkness fell on him, exploding on contact. It didn't hurt, but Seifer felt a powerful wave of exhaustion wash over him, making his knees buckle and his breath catch painfully as if he'd been fighting T-Rexaurs for hours.

He cursed himself for forgetting the all-important rule – never, ever underestimate an enemy based on looks alone...

Itachi tried a volley of throwing stars, but they bounced off a shimmering shield that encompassed the little creature. Scar didn't have any more luck with his exploding a portion of the floor, as the creature just levitated above the cracking stone and the debris sent flying everywhere slid off the shield as well.

"Would have been too easy," sighed Harry.

The creature squeaked again and seemed to curl upon itself a little; a black aura started surrounding his visible outer skin and its glowing yellow eyes seemed to grow bigger.

It rose a hand again and this time, when it gathered the orb of darkness from nowhere, the blackness was coursed through by coruscate lightning bolts.

"Oops..." grumbled Seifer, preparing to jump out of the way.

Their considerable evading skills proved useless however: the sphere impacted the floor several feet from any of them, yet they were all effected. Seifer felt as if he hadn't slept in a week and he saw Scarface waver tiredly to his left. Stoic Kid was panting, which was practically unheard of, and their Summoner was collapsed on the floor and rummaging frantically in one of his bags.

"It can focus," was Itachi's muttered comment, "storing power for the next attack."

Scar nodded and grimaced: "And it does so in the time we need to recuperate from its attack."

Seifer groaned. "Vicious cycle," he commented disgustedly. "Lovely."

Harry called out weakly and when they turned to him, he let little sparkly phials and oddly-coloured grenades roll on the floor towards each of them. "Items only, let's coordinate," he managed, sounding groggy.

Another squeak heralded a third stormy orb of destructive darkness, which barely gave them the time to scoop up the items before impacting, cursing them with another bout of tiredness and lethargy.

Seifer felt so weak the mere idea of rising the phial to his lips was daunting. His arms trembled badly, muscles aching as if overused. It took a supreme effort to uncork it and down the shimmering liquid with fatigued gulps.

Fire flew in his veins, energizing him so fast it was a shock. He jumped to his feet, absolutely incapable of staying still a moment longer. He felt wide awake and brimming with energy.

To his right, Stoic Kid had resumed his fighting position and was ready, purple grenade in hand, looking at them for his cue. Seifer nodded grimly, spying the creature focusing again – black aura and all – and armed his glowing orange bomb before glancing off to Harry and Scarface, finding them both up and ready.

"On three," called out Scar. "One, two..." and the four grenades flew in graceful arcs with perfect coordination, right as yet another lightning-riddled black orb plunged among them.

The wave of dizziness and the feeling of having received a severe beating returned, but the explosions were going off, and then kept going off – proof that Harry had tampered with the grenades more than a little – as they picked themselves up. That was good.

When the smoke and booms died down, the only sign of the creature left was the blue cloak crumpled in a pool of cloth on the floor, and the over-large hat sagging sadly atop it.

A soft squeak echoed from somewhere and nowhere, and when Seifer looked over to Harry, he saw that the Summoner had a faraway look and a very slight smile, as if he was seeing and communicating with things far beyond anyone else's reach.

Which he was, he reminded himself.

"Another Aeon bagged, then?" he asked cheerfully and though the others rolled their eyes at him, Harry also nodded smiling.

Seifer cheered. Mission accomplished!

"Alright! Now let's go back and have dinner! I'm starving!" he cried, already moving towards the wooden staircase. Breakfast had been far too long ago.

The forest felt brighter and more cheerful that in the morning and their path back was untroubled by either plant or beast, which only served to improve everybody's mood further.

Perhaps that was why the attack, when it came, caught them completely off guard.

* * *

_TBC..._


	11. An Unexpected Battle

_Disclaimer:__ Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this._

* * *

**When Worlds Collide**_  
_

An Unexpected Battle  


If Harry was to be completely honest, he would have to admit he hadn't even considered the possibility of being attacked right then, right there.

It seemed simply impossible to be ambushed just outside a Cloister... almost... wrong, on a fundamental level – a profanation of sorts, if you will. Stupid, really. Why would the sense of serene accomplishment, that always filled _him_ after gaining the alliance of an Aeon, have any relevance on other people's actions?

Thankfully, his Guardians weren't as unprepared as he felt, unexpected though the attack was. It was probably impossible to catch Itachi off guard – being alert was his default mode and his senses and combat instincts were just freaking good. And Seifer and Scar weren't slouch either.

No sooner had the first green beam shot out of nowhere – or rather, Harry realized, from where a disillusioned group had to be standing – that it impacted with an intercepting kunai flawlessly thrown by his impassive Guardian.

The metal weapon exploded in dangerous shrapnel, but Itachi, his supernatural speed only honed by training and a judicious use of the Autohaste ability painstakingly earned under Seifer's direction, had already moved the Summoner out of the way and behind the shelter of a tree, shielding him with his body. As for the other two Guardians, the first barrage of curses had barely exploded around them and already they were springing into action, lashing back at their attackers with those amazing skills and coordination that always left Harry smiling in wonder.

The young Summoner breathed deeply, forcing himself to recover his balance and to push away the feeling of irritation – at himself for being surprised like this, at the ill-timed attack for disrupting his peaceful satisfaction, and at the enemies that just wouldn't leave him alone most of all. Why were they even targeting him? This wasn't a chance attack, it was _planned._

Itachi stepped out of the tree sideways, his fingers moving in a blur that contrasted sharply with his still, composed frame. Pressurized water erupted from apparently nowhere and jumped forward in a spinning motion, drilling through where he was reasonably sure the nearest bunch of attackers would be. Judging by the screams of pain, he was right.

Lethal green and purple beams zoomed around him and Harry, but their aim was wildly off.

The Summoner glanced quickly beyond the barrage of glittering shurikens Itachi was skilfully disseminating among their disillusioned enemies, somehow making them explode on impact into scorching flames that marked the contours of invisible robes and suddenly contorting bodies, and caught sight of Seifer's powerful Reflect shield blazing white and green from the other side of the improvised battlefield. His attackers were screaming in frustration at being hit by their own curses, while the blond struck as unexpected as lightning, with his characteristic backhand slashes.

Scar was weaving his own attacks beautifully with Seifer's, moving around and alongside the blond gunblader with ease: they had the confident fluidity of a team that knew each other's style inside out, born of long hours shared, in and out of practice time, and a common goal they were devoted to.

They didn't waste a second, neither to discuss their own moves, nor to worry about Harry, correctly trusting Itachi to protect their Summoner; they also didn't need any visual targets to wreak havoc: Seifer, because he'd trained himself to fight under Blind status to the point his accuracy was unaffected; Scar, because he only needed a rough estimate of where the enemies were, to explode the ground around them and leave them bleeding and disoriented, incapable of keeping the Disillusionment Charm up through the pain, and unable to gather their wits and strike back because either him or Seifer were almost instantly on them, fists and kicks breaking bones with frightening ease and gunblade slashing through the black-robed wand-wielders as if they were mere toys.

The first wave of ambushers was dispatched in mere minutes, the battle cries turned pained screams and the booming shouts of destruction tapering off for a breathless moment. But it was far from the end.

As the dust raised by the struggle attempted to settle, Harry felt the atmosphere changing: he recognized the peculiar quality of tension spreading, that heralded a more even fight.

Higher-ranked enemies were entering the frame.

With a meaningful glance, Itachi and he agreed on a battle plan they had elaborated and honed ages before, in one of their many hypothetical-scenario kind of practices (and, if Harry was to be honest, in countless exasperation-filled quarrels, which his Guardians had relentlessly pressed upon him until he'd at long last come to accept that it was not his role in battle to actually _fight)._

The lean, black-haired warrior raised an Earth Wall before Harry then vaulted above it agilely. He didn't go far, scared of leaving the Summoner defenceless and exposed to possible treachery, the mindset of a ninja pointing out strongly the possibility of decoys and deceptions – Harry always was, and always would be, his first concern, his first thought – but his infallible shurikens struck true, disabling the last struggling wand-wielders nearby with ease, and then he went completely still, the terrifying stillness that was one of his most dangerous battle-modes, when he looked like he wasn't even breathing, and he started crafting one of his Illusions.

Harry, ready and willing, took over watching duty and with calm precision cast Shell and Protect over himself and Itachi in quick succession, all the while observing the newcomers.

They didn't look like wand-wielders. They moved more aggressively, and more economically, like fighters trained for close combat rather than the ranged spell-fire the previous ones had favoured. Moreover, they didn't wear fancy robes, but what was clearly a very sensible uniform, of grey cotton fitted loosely, to allow freedom of movement and perhaps conceal some weapons: trousers fastened at the ankles, knees and waist, a jacket with overlapping lapels over a black and grey camouflage outfit and protective arm-and-hand sleeves. The only thing they had in common with the wand-wielders was the fact that they wore a mask and a hood too.

All in all, however, they didn't seem much more competent than the first wave of attackers and almost too soon, Itachi was shrugging his head very slightly, signalling that his Illusion had taken hold; however, right at that time a grey-white blur launched himself at the immoveable Guardian, who reacted lightning-fast, meeting the strangely bone-white blade the new attacker had thrust at him with a steel one of his own.

Not worried for Itachi in the least, Harry turned to check on his other two Guardians, ready to shield them as well, and was momentarily distracted by the sight of Scar holding his bleeding side with an arm and panting. A curse or a weapon had to have broken through his defence, but luckily it didn't look serious; he evoked his White Magic softly, directing a gentle glowing Cure his way, absently registering that four of their attackers nearby were now fighting enemies of thin air, apparently oblivious to their real opponents: the first victims of Itachi's Illusion.

Seifer, for his part, was squaring off with a tall, dark-robed wizard who moved with lethal elegance. The rebound of an attack had blown off his hood and while his face remained hidden behind a bone-white mask, his long, pale blond hair spilled out in a straight, silky curtain, as attention-catching as anything.

He was displaying far more confidence than anyone else had so far, but noticing that his mouth was curled in a rictus under the mask, Harry judged that Seifer and his usual insults had to have got under the wizard's skin already. Now, _that_ was talent.

As Harry watched, the man twisted his golden-brown wand into a double-helical movement and stabbed it with a snarl in Seifer's direction, generating a murder of tiny crows, incredibly small-sized but with razor-sharp beaks, that streaked through the air towards the blond Guardian with determined viciousness.

Impassive, Seifer stood unwaveringly, gunblade raised horizontally at shoulder level, until the very last useful instant, when he exploded into action, turning on the spot and gathering momentum like a coiled spring, only to release it powerfully in a brutal slash that tore through the insect-like birds, scattering them before their needle-like beaks could pierce him: he triggered a round right in the middle of the storm, causing most of the tiny monsters to explode in a gory mess, and laughed derisively: "That all you've got, blondie? Chickenwuss could do better, and he's a wimp!"

In spite of Seifer's mocking, though, Harry had to recognize that the mysterious blond made for a worthy opponent. He didn't waste time and pelted the Guardian with a series of flashing bullet-like spells, which anyone without Seifer's experienced agility would have had serious troubles dodging. A couple impacted nearby trees, exploding the bark, and one hit a black-clad wizard that was battling something existing only in his mind, blowing his left arm and part of his chest up into dust. The poor man collapsed screaming, and already Seifer was being assaulted by two huge snakes his enemy had conjured out of nowhere, buying himself the time to retreat and keep out of range of the Guardian's blade.

Seifer though made quick work of the two weak threats and, true to himself, didn't stop goading his opponent: "Come on, you blond ponce! Surely you aren't such a ninny? Show me what you got!"

In a move that had seldom worked when he tried it in training, he triggered a round while holding his gunblade behind him, letting the recoil push him forward much faster than the wizard could back away. Unfortunately, he didn't manage to thrust the blade into his enemy, because right at that moment another man suddenly stumbled into the path of his blow. Immediately after, a second one, wearing the same grey uniform, slammed into him with enough force to make them both run themselves through Seifer's blade, which fell through the two bodies like a table knife through butter.

"What the hell!" shouted the blond Guardian.

A careless "Sorry" came from somewhere on the blond's right, where Scar, who was apparently responsible for the ill-timed interruption, was rather distracted by the three opponents he was busy beating soundly, and Seifer spared a half-hearted glare for his fellow Guardian before shrugging and triggering another round, mangling the corpses his gunblade was embedded in, so that the recoil of the shot pushed the blade back, freeing it without effort.

He was barely in time to shield from a whip-like purple spell the blond wizard cast from where he'd sought the cover of a tree.

"Hiding now?" taunted Seifer. "What, are you a coward, too? Not that I'm surprised..."

The wizard snarled in contempt, disgust oozing from his tone as he disdainfully addressed Seifer: "Look at you, relying on that ridiculous contraption like a mudblood-loving fool! You're a disgrace to the name of wizard!"

"Who are you calling a wizard?!" shouted Seifer, stopping the other in his tracks and making him gape unattractively. "Why, you wand-loving asshole! How dare you insult my Hyperion! I'll show you!"

He charged with fury, but the tall blond calmly moved out of the way, throwing a spell at him that made him stumble and slowed him down; then, when Seifer tried to rush him again, the wizard set into a pattern of disappearing and reappearing randomly, always throwing off a couple spells in quick succession before vanishing again with a soft crack. It was a highly effective tactic, because it kept him carefully out of the Guardian's range, frustrating any charge Seifer tried, and allowed him to exploit as cover the other fights that were going on around them. A fair few of his attacks even hit, and soon the Guardian was bleeding from a number of minor wounds.

"What's the matter? Afraid I might bite?" roared Seifer, growing exasperated with the way the wizard was eluding him.

"If you did, it'd probably give me rabids, you disgusting mongrel!" was the sneered reply. "To think, that I must be here, wasting my magic on you... when you're nothing but a filthy muggle!"

Seifer had no clue what 'muggle' even meant, but it was beyond the point, it was clearly an insult. "You're on my list!" he shouted furiously.

He charged again, but this time, instead of carrying it out like before, he abruptly changed direction in mid-stride, not breaking his run: he swung his gloved fist around with all his might... and grinned ferally when his fist connected. His careful, if discreet, observation of the other's apparitions pattern was paying off: the wizard had been caught completely off-guard!

The bone-white mask was knocked off, baring a pointy face almost as white, on which the blow had left a trail of blood and a rapidly darkening bruise.

The wizard shoved him away with a jab of his wand and a growled "_Repello_!" and scrambled away, catching himself on the dirty ground before straightening and turning, panting, to face Seifer, whipping his wand around just as the Guardian regained his own balance and readied himself to face him again. The wizard was heaving heavy breaths and slowly, very slowly, wiped the trail of blood clean off his chin, never once taking his cold grey eyes off the confident Guardian.

Seifer grinned, and it wasn't pretty: "Looks lovely on you, that bruise," he mocked. Then he raised his arm in an arrogant, come-hither gesture: "Come on, come closer, now... Let me add a few scars to that pretty face of yours! Might do you some good in the manly department!"

His opponent's eyes flashed with fury, but he apparently had excellent self control. "And what... would a mere _boy_ know... of virility?" he drawled, voice dripping with contempt. "You worthless mudblood, you aren't worth the saliva I would waste should I spit on you... and that poor excuse for a weakling you run around with, who..."

"You don't want to finish that sentence." Seifer's grin vanished with unnatural speed, leaving only a stormy, glacial expression in his face.

The wizard merely narrowed his eyes malevolently: "...who wouldn't be worth to kiss the feet of a true wizard, let alone a _real_ Summoner, if he even knew how to recognize someone so above him...!"

Cold fury burned in Seifer's eyes. How _dare_ this bastard insult Harry. How dare he!

Left hand extended, he called up a fire spell from his dwindling stock, letting it coalesce in his palm, spiralling red and blue-white flames twirling in an apparent orb for an instant before he released it.

The cold grey eyes went wide with shock as the spell shot straight at the wizard and a terrified gasp was torn from him just before he was hit: "Wandless magic!..."

The fiery blow left the man stunned and reeling with pain and fear and Seifer didn't give him any time to recover: in an instant, he was looming over him and there was no stopping his blade this time. A powerful slash cut the black-robed enemy almost in half. His face was frozen in his last expression of utter shock as he fell slowly forwards, his bleeding form crumbling in the dirt.

A shocked cry rose from the trees and a short but bulky man, with broad shoulders straining the black robe and long gorilla arms, came running out, stopping abruptly over the fallen blond: "Lucius!"

"Get back here, you idiot! We must wait for the signal!" roared another masked wizard, running a few steps out of the trees as well, before thinking better of it, and running back with a string of muttered curses.

The man who'd cried out raised his head to look at Seifer wildly, aghast: "You killed him!" he exclaimed in a low rasp. And then, as if he simply couldn't comprehend the fact, he repeated dazedly: "You killed him!"

Seifer rolled his eyes: "So I did," he agreed sarcastically.

"No, but," fretted the man, almost gasping. "You killed Lucius." He looked back down at the dead wizard, then up again: "What am I supposed to do now?" he asked pitifully, sounding like a little lost child.

Seifer gaped at him: "Are you for real?" he asked, then shook his head and turned away, dismissing the man outright.

It was a mistake.

With a roar that was more uncertainty and fear than rage, the bulky wizard aimed at him and shouted: "_Sectumsempra!"_

Blood spurted from Seifer's back as though he had been slashed with an invisible sword. He staggered forward and Hyperion fell from his suddenly limp hand as he crumbled to his knees, coughing up more blood.

"_Seifer!" _shouted Harry, horrified. So far, he'd kept out of the way like his Guardians had drilled into him and had merely kept a keen watch on all fighting going on around him, ready to help out with a stray spell or a small bomb or a spot of healing as needed. The moment he saw Seifer crumbling, though, he started running towards the blond, all thoughts of his own safety forgotten.

He whipped out a couple handy items while he ran: a cheap, shining gem charged to harm a target upon contact and one of his Blaster Bombs, the kind Rikku had taught him to build, mixing this and that with common grenades, and which did little damage but were a pain to deal with for his opponents because they inflicted various deleterious status on the targeted enemies.

The first was thrust with precision at Seifer's vile attacker: the burly man yelped in pain and, taking one look at the enraged boy charging him, turned tail and ran for the woods; the second was thrown a lot more carelessly at where the other wizard had appeared and then hidden again among the trees, but Harry didn't even bother to check if the bomb had had any significant effect. All his attention was on Seifer's unconscious form and he collapsed on his knees next to his fallen Guardian, tearing the cloth to see the injuries better, healing magic already dancing on his fingertips.

With almost all of his concentration focused on saving Seifer's life, he barely registered a man with dark eyes and a bandanna with an odd symbol attempting to take advantage of his distraction to stab him; nor did he notice Scar suddenly appearing to kick the attacker back before he could reach Harry and then taking up position to guard his back and Seifer's while the healing continued.

He merely crouched over his Guardian, murmuring incantation after incantation and letting his White Magic wash gently over him, heedless of how fast he was expending his energy and fairly oblivious to Scar's efforts as well as to whatever was going on on the battlefield at large.

Finally, the bleeding was stopped, the wounds closed into angry scratches, and Seifer groaned and twitched laboriously, fighting to regain consciousness. Harry breathed in relief, resting back on his calves and blinking at the sudden realization that they were still in the middle of a chaotic battle, even if he'd tuned it out in his worry for Seifer.

"Do you think we could move him safely?" asked Scar from right behind him. His rather strained tone was a testimony of how busy he was, keeping them safe in such an exposed position. "Some cover would be helpful."

"Right," agreed Harry, but before they could put words into action, a booming explosion rocked the ground a little further away, enveloping them in smoke, while bulky earth debris rained down on them. Scar quickly moved to protect Seifer's body with his own.

Instinctively turning away to shield his eyes from the irritating smoke, Harry caught sight of Itachi still engaged in combat with his odd adversary.

The grey-white blur had turned out to be a pale-skinned man who, unlike all other, wasn't wearing any kind of hood or mask to conceal his vivid green eyes, muscular features, or the two odd scarlet dots on his forehead.

Everything, from the way he dressed to the way he moved and talked, made it clear that he wasn't a wizard. On the contrary, he wore the kind of traditional fighting outfit that Itachi himself might have favoured once upon a time: loose-fitting, long-sleeved shirt, that kept sliding down one shoulder, black pants cut off around mid-calf, bandages wrapped around his ankles, traditional sandals; and the light lavender, rope-like belt tied in an inverted bow around his waist was just the kind of detail highly skilled ninja would add to their attire in a fit of individuality. He also used the sharp, fluid movements only highly trained martial artists acquired.

In fact, many details about him and his fighting style reminded Itachi strongly of his childhood, making him wonder if the white-haired man was originally from his same world.

Certainly, Itachi had been more prepared to face him than any of the others could have been, and had taken in stride the disturbing way in which he manipulated his own skeletal structure to wield his bones as weapons in battle. It was obviously a Blood Limited Ability, though not one Itachi had ever heard of – but then, most Hidden Villages renounced bragging about their clans' best abilities, preferring to keep such essential advantages as under wraps as possible.

The first few exchanges of blows had been enough to establish their skill level in general terms and while outwardly as impassive as usual, inside Itachi had revelled in finding a challenge of such familiarity so far away from his long-abandoned childhood home.

Since his opponent, even counting his odd ability with bones, was restricting himself to martial arts and body-enhancing techniques, Itachi had done the same at first, and with relative ease: despite not specialising in it he possessed high-level hand-to-hand combat skills and they'd only been honed by sparring with Scar on a daily basis; and the small craters his kicks were disseminating on the ground were a testament of his not inconsiderable physical strength.

However, Itachi knew all too well that he couldn't afford to draw the fight out too much.

His stamina had improved tremendously thanks to training with Scar and Seifer: neither of them had been born with the natural gifts of the Uchiha clan, which meant they'd had to build up their abilities a little at a time, and thus they knew how to help Itachi do the same; in spite of this, his endurance was still below average if compared with someone from his home world and he was very conscious of this.

The white-haired ninja, for his part, didn't show the slightest hint of being fatigued, or of slowing down. He was an extremely adept close-range combatant, demonstrating impressive control over his body. His agility and dexterity were almost on par with Itachi's own, though the Guardian's higher proficiency with the Body Flicker Technique gave him a distinct advantage, since he could chase his opponent instantly after a hit struck true, affording him very little time to initiate a counter-attack.

On the other hand, even when he hit his opponent, his efforts didn't seem to do much at all.

The odd Blood Limited Ability was a near-invincible defence, able to withstand most impacts unscathed, even chackra-laden blows. Itachi speculated within himself that it must allow him to manipulate his osteoblast and osteoclast cells, granting him absolute control over the density of his bones, as well as the building and breaking down of bone tissue. It was rather fascinating.

In any case, it meant that Itachi had to work hard to keep himself on the offensive. More than once, only his insanely fast reflexes saved him from being speared by a hastily grown bone. The way the man manipulated them was arresting.

Thus it had taken very little time for Itachi to decide he had to switch the focus of the battle slightly towards what he was more comfortable with.

His adversary, however, had been unfazed by the introduction of Fire Release techniques and shurikens into the fray.

The hand-held throwing blades had been a favourite weapon of his since Itachi could barely walk, and his accuracy in their use had been almost legendary within the Uchiha clan, yet his opponent had dodged his every throw easily, at least until Itachi had resorted to one of his signature moves, summoning a large flock of crows to hide the next barrage.

Even then, the white-haired ninja hadn't been much bothered by the many hits – and Itachi acknowledged silently that his skill was admirable, since he'd managed to protect the primary targets, eyes, face, hands or feet, letting only his clothes and torso take damage. He clearly had a very strong determination and endurance, anyway: the thin trails of blood oozing from the many cuts hadn't slowed him down at all, nor had the few burns he'd suffered. He would probably prove to be a deadly opponent even one step away from his own death.

Itachi had to admit that he was enjoying the rare challenge, and more, the bittersweet taste of familiarity he found in it. The predominance of chackra-enhancements, the discreet use of seals – as they fought, Itachi caught sight of a circular pattern of three curved lines tattooed at the base of the white-haired man's throat and his curiosity was picked, though he knew it was likely destined to remain unsatisfied – the rapid gaining and nullifying of advantage after advantage, using every ounce of tactical thinking and every element of their surrounding to turn the tables on their opponent, the way the stranger courteously inquired after an obviously peculiar technique – when Itachi displayed the Uchiha clan's typical giant fireballs in rebuttal to an explosion of bone spikes protruding abruptly from the ground in an attempt to impale him – even as he politely offered the denominations of his own Dances of the Bones in exchange... all spoke to Itachi of the life he'd long ago left behind. And surprisingly, he liked it.

Their fight was following the rhythm Itachi had been used to as a child, too, starting off with standard techniques any academy or clan taught and slowly moving up to better and better ones, in an effort to one-up each other and show themselves superior as much as knock the opponent out.

After all, they were both determined to win, but neither was in any hurry to simply kill. Each recognized in the other the dangerous quality of a high-ranked fighter and their unexpected, but welcome, mutual respect had needed no words to be acknowledged.

From Harry's point of view, even just the glimpse he was getting of the ongoing fight was a truly memorable show.

Itachi was like a lean, cat-like predator, all sharp focus and liquid movement; the white-haired fighter was an extremely powerful combatant, whose obvious strength was made greater by his control: nothing was wasted in his motions.

It was a deadly dance, but quite beautiful to watch.

Still, when he realized they were still at it after he'd healed Seifer, Harry frowned, surprised and worried that his ninja Guardian hadn't yet managed to dispatch his opponent; was the stranger truly that good?

Then he realized that Itachi's attention might seem to be fully on the fight he was engaged in, but his gaze was instead faraway and opaque: he was splitting his focus and still maintaining the Illusion he'd woven at the start, even while fighting.

A bit amazed, a bit worried at what looked like arrogance on the ninja's part, Harry shook his head in wonder, admitting to himself that perhaps, just perhaps... Itachi was having fun.

But the smoke was dissipating and a mocking laugh called him back to the fray, so the young Summoner reluctantly returned his full attention to his other two Guardians: Seifer was still too weak and in pain to do much, so much so that he was supporting himself on his gunblade and looking unsteady, and Scar...

Harry blinked.

There were _two_ Scars standing in the last swirls of dusty smoke, perfectly identical and mirroring each other's pose. Both sported flabbergasted expressions, too. One of them was clearly an excellent actor.

Harry's lips curled in disgust. Yes, on the surface, they looked undistinguishable – they both had Scar's dark complexion and distinctive red irises, not to mention the unique X-shaped scar, they both wore the familiar gold-coloured jacket with the white cross... if Harry bothered to examine the arm tattoo, he had no doubt he would find it identical to the last ink drop.

But only one of them was _his_ Scar. The bond of Summoner to Guardian, that was usually just there in the background of his mind, almost unnoticeable in the hustle and bustle of everyday life, was suddenly singing loud and clear to his soul. There was no possible way he would ever mistake a- a _whoever_, for one of his own. The imposter was out of luck with this strategy.

Unhesitatingly, he threw a steel knife – the only weapon his Guardians had agreed to teach him to use – at the fake Scar; but the fraud dodged promptly, letting it flew past harmlessly.

He tried to play Harry, though, widening his eyes and twisting his mouth downward in mock horrified surprise: "Harry, wait!" he cried out in Scar's voice.

"Spare me!" the young Summoner said harshly. "Do you really think you could ever trick me like this, you pathetic fool?" He threw another knife, with no better luck than the first. "Looks are irrelevant. You don't _feel_ like my Guardian!"

"Is that so?" Scar's familiar voice was suddenly underlined with sneered cruelty and Harry's eyes narrowed in indignation.

"Give it up!" he shouted harshly. "You won't be able to trick me."

Frowning, the imposter came to a full stop and rose to Scar's full height. "Then perhaps I shan't bother offering you a show..." he hissed and a line of blinding white light ran over his body in a quick pace, at once dissolving Scar's appearance and leaving behind a different one.

Now he looked like a pale-skinned androgynous teenager, with a lean muscular build and bulging biceps, barely covered by a black form-fitting bodysuit. A matching headband held back a wild mass of long, wispy hair.

Harry wondered if that was his true form, or just a convenient one, and almost flinched at the malevolent, violet pupils that rested on him with clear enmity.

Then the frown changed into a malicious smirk and the quick white light ran its path over the body again, morphing its appearance to Seifer's, complete with cut-filled vest and pants: "Or perhaps I will!"

Faster than thought, he snapped a head-height roundhouse kick at where Harry stood and it was more luck than skill that had the young Summoner roll away with a yelp in time to avoid it.

The imposter laughed harshly: "Tell me. How do you feel, having to fight your own pet?" Another kick, which Harry sort-of parried by swinging his Rod around – and the precious length vibrated unsettlingly under the force of the hit – followed by a punch so fast Harry barely ducked in time – as it was, his goggles were torn from his head and flew away to crash somewhere in the background.

Harry gritted his teeth. All of his concentration was needed to dodge the raining blows, but if he could spare any thought to truly register the mocking words, he'd shout out his rage to the skies.

"Aren't you having fun?" the imposter gloated. He twirled a gunblade that he had somehow reproduced around and around in his raised hand, just like Seifer always did, and laughed again: "I sure am!"

He stilled his arm and Harry braced for another attack, grasping his Rod tightly and whispering hastily "_Armour of light, halt physical might!_" to evoke at least some protection around himself.

Then Scar – the real one – shot past Harry, striking the muscled arm of their enemy to push it off-kilter just as the fake Seifer swung around at the Summoner, his blow half-deflected by Scar's counter-attack and half-sliding over the bluish tortoise-like shell of Harry's Protect shield with an irritating screech.

Wasting no time, Scar kept moving with his momentum, his powerful fist narrowly missing the imposter's face.

The fraud jumped back unbelievably fast, putting some distance between them, and landed heavily on the ground, the impact depressing the soil into a small crater.

Scar growled with revulsion and hatred. "Homunculus!" he hissed with utter disgust.

The shapeshifter burst out laughing hysterically.

Filled with the repugnance and fury those awful constructs always arose in him, the Ishvalan launched another attack immediately, hand flashing out for a punch that was blocked far too easily. He caught the counter-punch the homunculus threw at him in retaliation just as easily, ignoring the pain that flared in his hand from the contact.

And then they were fighting in earnest, blows coming fast and furious, with no time to analyse anything beyond the next step, the next stroke.

While Harry and the real Seifer tried to recover their breath and their shattered concentration, the homunculus pelted Scar with a series of attacks, and the Guardian met every kick and punch with matching ferocity.

The fake Seifer's agility was frightening. It was like he wasn't earthbound like the rest of them, but able to almost fly: he was continuously leaping from one perch to another, barely touching the ground before he was off again. His body moved through the air around it like a sword cleaving through yielding flesh.

Scar was faster than a swift wind, but still he was slow enough for the homunculus to see and counter any move even as he began to make it: he tried again and again to land a blow that the shapeshifter couldn't block, yet failed, over and over. The homunculus was simply too good.

It was only when the real Seifer, having quickly downed a Potion and feeling recovered enough, launched himself into the fray, that they gained a very slight advantage.

The two friends' coordination was such that they moved as one, and smoothly inserting their own moves into their partner's breathers, they maintained an almost continuous barrage of hits that kept the homunculus fully engaged.

Unfortunately, their opponent had an overwhelming advantage over them, in that he didn't get tired: it was not long before the two Guardians were breathing, if not quite hard, not quite easily either and their blows, while still accurate, started becoming less incisive.

Frantically trying to come up with a way to help them, Harry bemoaned the fact that most White Magic, while powerful, needed to be precisely targeted, which made the tangled hand-to-hand fight less than ideal: the last thing they needed was for a stray spell of his to accidentally boost the homunculus even further.

By a stroke of luck Scar managed to fend off a one-two combination punch deftly enough to nearly unbalance the shapeshifter, and Seifer, instantly ready to exploit the opening his partner had provided, went on the offensive: letting the enemy block his weapon's blade, he used that as leverage to hit the homunculus right in the face with the pistol-shaped hilt, holding nothing back, and as the shapeshifter reeled from the blow, he freed the blade and pivoted on himself, slashing a downward thrust on the other's exposed arm.

It worked: the limb was almost cut off and was bleeding freely; in response, the homunculus snarled furiously and, moving too fast to keep track of, shattered Seifer's right arm, knocking his gunblade from his hands.

As Harry rushed to his side and washed the broken bone in the healing glow of a Cure, Scar attempted to press their enemy, leaping sideways and, nearly horizontal in mid-air, snapping a kick at the other's head.

It hit, and hard enough to blow the homunculus backward, but the monster twisted in mid-air and landed on all fours in a cat-like crouch, growling ferally.

And that was when the homunculus turned the tables on them. The lightning-quick white line coursed once more over the stolen appearance, this time morphing it... into Harry's.

Same untidy jet-black hair, same lean but tall frame and peculiar fashion sense, same startlingly green, almond-shaped eyes... same, all too familiar expression, warm and welcoming.

Even knowing it wasn't really him, even knowing it was all a trick, even _knowing_ they were being cruelly manipulated, Scar and Seifer faltered.

The combined attack they were about to launch wavered – an hesitation that lasted no more than a second, but long enough to render their effort vain. The monster wearing Harry's face evaded it with insulting ease and laughed – Harry's laugh, bright and clear and _wrong._

"What's the matter? Scared of harming your precious little Summoner?" mocked the homunculus cruelly.

Seifer growled and leaped forward, determined to punch that source of irritation in the face, but the homunculus took a half-step back, mimicking an expression of shock and sudden hurt, widening Harry's eyes pleadingly, and against his will, the Guardian's fist faltered, his blow resulting far less potent than it should have been.

Cartwheeling away with a jeering laugh, the homunculus mocked him again: "You can't bring yourself to hit me now, can you? Ha ha ha! I shouldn't be surprised, you... _humans!_" he spit the world like it had a nasty taste, "You always put emotion before common sense!"

He twirled the copy of Harry's rod he'd fashioned for his ruse for a moment, then threw it at Seifer like a javelin, with such force that it split a crack of several feet open in the ground where it hit after the Guardian had hastily thrown himself aside to dodge it.

"That's just how all you humans are!" shouted the homunculus. It was clear that he was taking great delight in tormenting them. "The last man I killed... all I had to do was make myself look like his daughter and he was helpless - he couldn't even fight me! You humans are so easy to take advantage of!"

Scar roared in frustration, furious with himself for letting the abomination play with his emotions like that – and to add insult to injury, the real Harry was not ten steps from him, yelling encouragements! It was beyond ridiculous... it was pathetic!

And yet... and yet. When Seifer and he tried to rally, and charged the homunculus, there was an almost buried hesitancy underlying their movements that spelled disaster for their attack. They couldn't help it: no matter what their minds were screaming at them about appearances and deceit, there was something deep inside them that revolted against harming their Lord Summoner's form.

And the homunculus took shameless advantage of that.

Seifer was blown to the side, flying through the air and crashing violently against a tree trunk. Scar managed to dodge the first kick at least, then realized in a split second he wouldn't be able to avoid the following fist – the homunculus was too fast – so chose to grab the arm with both his hands instead, trapping it in a vicious grip in an effort to stop it... he managed – barely – but with a malevolent smirk, the monster transformed the trapped limb into a flesh-coloured tentacle with an impossibly sharp end that elongated abruptly and pierced his shoulder.

Scar's eyes widened in shock and fear and he had less than a moment to berate himself – why hadn't he thought of this possibility, Lust had been able to do the same with those unnatural claws of hers! – before the spiked appendage twisted away and struck again, piercing his lower belly, making blood and gore spurt onto the shaken ground.

Harry cried out and swung his Rod around, in the attempt to form a Curaga for him, but the shockingly fast homunculus didn't give him the time and, abandoning Scar to collapse where he stood, rushed the young Summoner, disrupting his concentration – the spell was lost, to Harry's chagrin – and spinning the spiked tentacle around, hit him unerringly in the shoulder. The blow crashed through his Protect shield as if it wasn't there and his bones fractured with an excruciating pain; Harry couldn't help screaming.

At once, the cry was echoed from the other side of the battlefield by another, tortured scream and though his vision was blurred by pain, Harry forced himself to turn enough to see Itachi running at his full speed towards him, his opponent crumbled and forgotten.

The ninja Guardian might have been enjoying his fight, but a part of him had remained alert to the other, more important battle going on, only his utter confidence about being ultimately able to draw his own struggle to a close very quickly if necessary allowing him to indulge himself like that.

And no matter how he'd come to respect his opponent, the moment his Lord Summoner's scream signalled that he was in real danger, all bets were off.

Dropping the Illusion he'd kept up all along – with barely a thought for the few victims still standing, pained and disoriented – he changed his motions on the fly, leaping and grabbing and twisting, to force the white-haired ninja to meet his gaze, black swirls already spinning on suddenly red irises: determined to put an end to his fight at once, he called up the most devastating Illusion he could slap together in no time at all, 'suggesting' pain and paralysis and heart-stopping terror, and didn't even bother checking the results properly, beyond registering the torment in the white-haired fighter's verdigris eyes fading into unconsciousness.

Sparing no thought for the fallen adversary at all, in less than an instant he was running to his Lord Summoner's side.

The homunculus snapped his stolen eyes up and burst out into a mean laughter, jumping eagerly to meet the running ninja at equal speed, changing in mid-stride to his androgynous teenager appearance and shouting with glee: "What? Is this Christmas? Here comes another pathetic fool, free of charge! I will have such fun breaking you... I'll yank your spine out of your mouth! And then I'll kill your pitiful little friends..."

In a flash, the two combatants were meeting half-way with a resounding crash.

Quickly, a still panting Seifer skidded on his knees to Harry's side, then lifted him bodily and whisked him away to deposit him behind a fallen tree trunk – the nearest cover – before dashing back for Scar.

Harry grasped listlessly at the charred wood, uselessly hoping it would somehow lend him the strength to ignore the pain he was in. When Seifer darted behind the cover again with a bleeding, gasping Scar in his arms, he gritted his teeth, realizing that if he didn't pull himself together they were all goners.

"What can I do?" asked Seifer frantically. "Harry. Harry, look at me! What can I do?"

Harry blinked the blur out of his eyes, grimacing at the pulsating pain in his shoulder.

"Harry, tell me how I can help!" Seifer sounded almost pleading, and if Harry could just think, he'd wonder about that. The gunblader was fluttering from one to the other of his injured comrades, uncharacteristically lost: he clearly knew not what to do for either and it wasn't settling well with him. "Give me something to do before I go spare!" he half-cried.

Swallowing the desire to scream or cry, Harry fumbled with one of his many pouches and somehow managed to produce two Hi Potions. Relieved, Seifer snatched them up, pouring one down Scar's throat before gently helping Harry swallow his.

The rapid knitting of bone and tissue was excruciating, pure agony, but at least it was quick.

It was all over in a matter of minutes, and Harry took deep breaths, moving his shoulder to check its mobility. It was unimpaired, thankfully, and he felt fine, if tired. By the looks of it, Scar was recovered too.

"I don't know what's worse, the pain of the healing, or the taste of this stuff," Scar grumbled and Seifer chuckled, relaxing a little more. Harry half-smiled as well, agreeing that the typical taste of bitter sawdust was a big downside of Potions. Magic was _so_ much better. Speaking of which...

Closing his eyes to block out the sounds of fighting, Harry quickly evaluated what strength he had left and heartily cursed the bad luck of having used their Ethers already, in the earlier fight against the Aeon. His reserves were dangerously low.

There was an option... a spell he had thought up himself and had been studying and perfecting for a while now... If it worked as Harry intended it, it would slowly, but surely, restore their physical and spiritual energies over a span of time. And he had just the energy for it left.

Uncertain, he tried to decide whether or not to risk it. It was still experimental... and far from mastered... but it was probably their best chance too, under the circumstances.

Grasping his Rod tightly, he gathered all his concentration and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring Seifer's half-hearted protests. Then he turned on the spot, the motion swift and graceful, balanced on one heel, his body rotating compactly around his centre of gravity, shoulders drawing back for an instant, before bending in a half-bow. "_Let streams of hope refresh us and restore us,_" he whispered hurriedly.

To his immense relief, he felt the magic of the spell take, rushing out of him in a wave and smoothly taking the shape he'd intended for it.

Iridescent ribbons of light swirled around the three of them in large, flowing snakes, their faint red tinge growing more and more intense before they vanished in a shower of faint golden specks, that settled slowly on them. Not an instant later, he felt the first, tiny boost to his almost emptied reserves and smiled victoriously.

Seifer smiled too: "Cool." He flexed his fist absently, looking pleased. "This going to heal us a little bit at a time? Like Regen?"

Harry silently nodded, and Seifer repeated: "Cool."

Scar inclined his head in thanks, and they all turned to look at the ongoing face-off.

Itachi had taken over the fight with grim ferocity and was holding his own a lot better than the three of them had – mostly, they guessed almost at once, because he was completely unfazed by whatever shape the homunculus tried to morph into. Something that was clearly frustrating their enemy greatly.

The dangerous shapeshifter was obviously used to playing on his target's emotions in order to have a psychological advantage before killing; but against Itachi, the tactic was pretty much futile. The Transformation Technique was such a common and abundantly used tool among even the most inexperienced of ninjas, that fighting enemies that looked like your own comrades was practically routine. Consequently, Itachi had since childhood relied on different methods to tell friend apart from foe.

The homunculus had already tried wearing both the other Guardians' faces, then the Summoner's, to absolutely no avail, and he was growing more and more peeved at this new, imperturbable opponent.

After a few more blows, exchanged more to get each other's measure than anything, the shapeshifter decided to attempt a different tactic: with a quick passage of the shuddering line of light, he turned himself into a little girl of five or six, with a pretty yellow dress, huge brown eyes and a cute short ponytail held by two beads on a rubber band, fluffing up atop her head.

She looked adorable.

But Itachi had been thrown onto a battlefield at age four himself, and remembered what kind of devastation a seemingly sweet and innocent child could bring if trained – underestimating an opponent or feeling guilty about going all out against a child was not an option among ninja clans. Impassively, he pelted the sweet-looking girl with short burst of streaming flames that she only barely dodged; it was not long before the homunculus regained his androgynous form with a snarl.

Beyond irritated that his strategy wasn't paying off for once, he was growing both enraged and careless. He had to fall back to overwhelming his opponent with his superior speed, but that, too, didn't work very well, as Itachi was just as fast, and moreover, he had no compunction in tricking his opponent. After the fourth time in a row the shapeshifter punched or kicked straight through the ninja's body, only to see it dissolve in a storm of black crows, he shouted in sheer rage and refrained from attacking again.

He just stood straight, glaring furiously at the ninja.

Taking advantage of the lull in the fighting, Scar and Seifer came up to Itachi's sides, flanking him calmly, both slipping in their favourite combat forms, ready to support their friend.

Mouth twisting in disgust, their enemy spit on the ground in their direction.

A long moment of silent stretched.

Then, coolly, Itachi commented: "You're a fool."

That tore an inarticulate shout of rage from the homunculus, who for an instant looked ready to charge the ninja again; but then a sudden thought stuck him and he calmed somewhat, observing him closely with a calculating gaze: "You think you can fight... anyone?" he asked, voice dangerously low.

Itachi merely regarded him steadily.

The homunculus smirked and asked slowly: "But can you fight... yourself?"

And a moment later another Itachi – absolutely identical to him down to the last detail, except for the smirk that didn't remotely mirror his stoic expression – stood right in front of him.

Another heartbeat, and the fake Itachi launched himself at him with unnatural speed, engaging him in a fast and furious close quarter.

Scar and Seifer held themselves at the ready, but the fast-paced struggle wasn't leaving any opening for them.

It was also messy and jumbled, as if the homunculus was less concerned with hitting Itachi and more intent on deliberately kicking up as much dust as possible, and a moment later Itachi realized why, when they abruptly separated, both jumping back a few meters to take a breath, and suddenly even the expression on the other's face was exactly his own.

Itachi wasn't bothered. The other should have realized by now, that the looks of whoever he was fighting meant less than nothing to him. Or was he hoping to confuse his allies enough to prevent them from offering help?

It didn't matter.

The three Guardians knew each other so well, that all Itachi had to do was twitch his fingers in code to signal his position and coordinate their next attack just as well as if they'd used words. The homunculus couldn't hope to break apart that mutual reliance, born of friendship and hard-earned trust.

Rushing him all together, they soon had the monster bleeding and bruised, and scrambling to keep up with their barrage of blows.

Snarling with rage, the homunculus tried to go back to the Summoner's form, that had worked so well against his enemies earlier; but this time, there was Itachi to lead their charge, and to cover the fractional hesitations of the other two.

Step, strike, block, whirl – the three friends moved in perfect accord, as smoothly and precisely as if this was just one of their daily practice kata: block, push, feint, _strike_, one after the other without glitches or indecisions, speeding up as they went, pressing the shapeshifter harder and harder until he was retreating backwards with each move.

"You're all pathetic!" shouted the homunculus, but his confident smirk was belied by the fury and envy blazing in his eyes.

He was being cornered. And he knew it.

"No. No, no, no, no! This can't be!" he yelled in fury and fear. "You... are just pitiful humans! How can you fight me like this? …humans... love to watch other people suffer while making fools of themselves... that's why you're constantly at war with each other!"

He tried one last time to grab Scar and throw him against a tree, but the Ishvalan flew with the motion, not fighting it, but instead going down in a controlled fall and bouncing back up before the homunculus could take advantage of his momentary weakness; and it was instead the shapeshifter who was distracted enough to let Seifer strike him.

The blond Guardian drove his gunblade through the homunculus and all the way to the tree trunk behind him, Scar helping by adding his strength to the momentum, until the monster was pinned like a butterfly mounted for display.

"No way... NO WAY!" shouted the homunculus, struggling against the resolute grip the two Guardians were maintaining on him. "You don't cooperate! You play sick games! Fight each other! Grovel in the dirt! How could you ever hope to team up? There's no way. No. No, you can't! Never! NEVER! It's impossible! How could you? How could you do it? HOW!?"

"Don't bother trying to make sense of our friendship," Itachi told him disdainfully. "You cannot even comprehend the deep connection we share."

"Don't look down on me, you WORMS!"

Itachi didn't deign the bellowed retort of any consideration; his eyes swirled and bled to the colour of blood again, then he closed them for a long instant, and when he snapped open the right one, the usual commas had been replaced by a pointy triskell.

Scar and Seifer leaped away from the homunculus, clearing the path for the scorching black fire that roared into existence, perfectly controlled, and perfectly unstoppable.

It was the most powerful of Itachi's Blood Limited techniques and although the price was high (he knew Harry was going to yell at him for this later, because his eyesight would only worsen after every time he used it, and not even the Summoner's magic would prevent him from eventually going blind if he wasn't careful), this was no doubt a time that called for it.

The all-consuming flames could burn anything, including fire itself, yet even so, the body of the homunculus kept regenerating itself again and again through the raging inferno, until, after longer than was reasonable to expect, it turned at last to black, powdery ash that fell to the ground in the sudden silence.

Itachi let the black flames taper off as Harry and the others came up to him and the four of them gathered close, silently watching the smoke dissipate. When it dispersed, the Summoner stood among his Guardians, straight and proud and inscrutable, the three painting a powerful picture around him.

In the wake of the devastating attack, a nasal voice shouted out from the trees: "Now! They must be exhausted...! Now's the time! Attack!"

Harry groaned. Was this never going to end?

From the cover of the trees, no more than a dozen men ran out, most of them in the black robes and white masks labelling them as wizards; more than half of them looked reluctant, even as they raised their wands.

Seifer caught his fellow Guardians' eye. A rapid exchange of hand signs was enough to coordinate them. The gunblader marshalled his tired body and cast the most powerful shield in his dwindling stock, knowing that he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long, but also that he wouldn't need to, and started bellowing insults to keep the attackers' attention on himself while they bombarded his shield with weak spells.

Behind the evanescent pink protection, Scar's strong arm encircled the young Summoner's shoulders and Harry sank against his trusted side gratefully, feeling rather exhausted.

Meanwhile, Itachi slipped away, silent as a shadow, and quickly circling behind these last scattered ranks, he wove an Illusion once more.

A moment later, a fire wall that emanated no heat ran in a fast, straight line between his three comrades and the remaining enemies, shrouding each other from view. Itachi took advantage of the cover to silently reappear at his friends' side.

As abruptly as it had started, the fire wall vanished. In its wake, the few wizards and combatants still standing were all screaming and running around like headless chickens, clawing at their own eyes or ears. One went so far as to thump his own head against a tree trunk, repeatedly.

"I don't even want to know," commented Scar in mid-voice.

"You're scary, Stoic Kid," Seifer shook his head. "Damn cool, but scary."

"But brilliant," said Harry softly, his expression sad.

Scar squeezed him gently, his arm comforting but heavy on his shoulder. "You are not at fault. You are not responsible for their actions. Not even indirectly."

Harry nodded uncertainly. "Let's go," he said tiredly.

They made their way out of the Forest in what seemed like an interminably long time.

Harry felt wrung out. All he wished was to hide out in his room for a while, come to terms with things. Catch his breath if nothing else.

But of course, it couldn't be that simple.

Not ten steps from the border of the forest, rows and rows of eager, overexcited students were laying in wait.

As soon as they appeared, they were welcomed by a round of resounding applause, shouts and catcalls; many were calling out to him. Or to his Guardians... especially Seifer.

Harry grimaced when he noticed that the teachers were attempting to corral the teenagers into some sort of wide circle. And that the adults looked almost as excited as the students.

He sighed. It was pretty clear what they hoped for. Truthfully, Harry didn't blame them in the least: he knew it was part of his duties, in a way, and had certainly not begrudged the villagers of Besaid when they'd gathered to bear witness to his first success... Just because he'd been lucky enough to avoid having to show off after the first time, it didn't mean he could – or would – back out of it now that, like on Spira, people knew what to expect and, well, expected it.

But had there been the slightest chance of avoiding it, Harry would have seized it gratefully.

With an unnoticeable sigh, he moved to the centre of the improvised arena, trying to ignore how his Guardians were glaring everybody into cowedly keeping their distance with even more determination than usual. When he stopped and the three of them fanned out, leaving him, so to say, on stage, the crowd went wild.

Too tired and cranky to launch into the Invocation of a newly acquired Aeon, however, Harry found himself wondering if he could get away with a little cheating. When he tentatively probed his Aeons' opinion, he got back a feeling of amused agreement from all of them, even the last one.

Rather relieved, he went through the motions to evoke his very first Aeon.

Much like that day so long ago, the winged lion-like creature fell fast from a spinning vortex of clouds and glided regally down to him, eagerly nuzzling the hand Harry raised to pet its eagle head.

The magnificent creature was an instant hit: all of the teenagers whooped and crowed and generally behaved like a crazed crowd at the blitzball final and many a flash went off from cameras scattered among the crowd, sometimes accompanied by an odd purple smoke.

Harry ignored them all and smiled at the Aeon, stroking its feathers gently. "Thank you," he murmured inaudibly, conveying all his gratitude along their bond, to him, and to the others so far away and so close.

Barely a couple of minutes later, though, he released the Aeon, the strain starting to get to him, and in a moment, his Guardians were closing rank around him, shielding him from the crowd, to his enormous relief. Had someone got close enough to demand an autograph right then, he wasn't sure he could have kept his composure.

Unfortunately, while the students could be intimidated, there was no avoiding the row of shiny-eyed teachers in the same way. The Headmaster in primis came up to him, arms outstretched, looking as giddy as a schoolboy on his first day: "My dear boy... such a wondrous..."

Harry, however, was not in the mood: "We were attacked by black-clad men with white masks," he said abruptly. His clipped tone arrested the gaggle of cooing adults as much as the words themselves. "On our way back, _after_ we'd completed our task," he clarified.

Distressed sounds and dismayed exclamations broke out from the gathered teachers. The Headmaster looked sad and grave: "Alas! I feared... we are at war, my Lord Summoner, and..."

"You knew?!" Scar rounded on him, outraged. "You expected something like this and didn't think to warn us?"

"Well, I..."

"Never mind," Harry interrupted brusquely, unwilling to enter a discussion right that minute, with exhaustion pressing down on his shoulder like a heavy coat. "We're going to rest, now."

"Of course! Of course...!"

"But afterwards," he spoke over the hasty reassurances of the old man, raising his voice just a little, "I will expect explanations."

The Headmaster looked uncomfortable: "Well, I..."

"In the meanwhile," said Harry with clipped precision, "you would do well to contact the local authorities and have them investigate." A heartbeat. "And collect the bodies."

Horrified gasps echoed that short specification. The Headmaster went so pale his skin looked like cold ash. Many teachers looked shocked and scared. Only the acerbic wizard with dark, oily hair they had already agreed to keep under careful watch spoke up, though: "What do you mean... _what did you do?_" he snarled, his tone surly and accusatory.

All three Guardians swung to glare at him at once, their fury so apparent it almost gave the impression of rising flames.

"Our Lord Summoner was _attacked_," hissed Itachi furiously. Somehow, he spit out the last word in such a way that it was heard as the most despicable, heinous crime ever.

"Did you truly expect us to leave those bastards standing?" demanded Seifer, venomous, his contemptuous glare implying the dark man was a moron for even entertaining the notion.

"They're lucky we're not going after their families!" spat out Scar, just as vicious.

An awkward silence ensued, filled with pale, shocked faces staring at them in horror, that parted hastily before Seifer's determined stride, inching away from them and closer to each other.

Harry didn't let it faze him in the least and merely followed the tall blond's form, drawing his cloak tighter around himself, Itachi hovering close like a protective shadow.

Scar treated the rest of them to a last, contemptuous glare, before hurrying after them.


End file.
